


song of the bluebird

by natkate



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Is A Grounder (The 100), Childhood Friends to Lovers, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 18:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20511851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natkate/pseuds/natkate
Summary: Clarke is chasing butterflies when she stumbles across a girl with wild hair and sad eyes.ORAU where everyone is a Grounder, Clarke meets Lexa by chance, and they become the best of friends on the verge of a life-changing event.





	1. chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is me taking a crack at one of my all-time favorite tropes with one of my all-time favorite couples. i love the idea of two people meeting and connecting instantly but being too enthralled by the other person's company to really stop and interrogate the nature of that connection. i also really love the idea of this connection being formed in childhood, in a time when trust is infinite and happiness is easily felt.
> 
> consider this my ode to such a love.

_ July 2138 _

Clarke loved chasing butterflies. She could almost forget she was running when she did so.

The one she followed now had bright blue wings with black spots, and she wondered if this was one of the ones that glowed in the dark. She wouldn’t be able to stay out late enough to see if it was, though.

Her mother had been very clear - when the sky turned pink and the breeze got cooler, she was to return home. Clarke glanced up at the patches of sky above, seeing enough breaks in the canopy to know it was still bright blue. 

Good. That meant she had plenty of time. 

Though her legs were short and her stride clumsy, Clarke knew this path well enough to keep herself upright, pursuing the butterfly intently as the sounds of the village behind her grew quieter. She liked this part of the forest with its giant trees and noisy bugs. She’d even seen a skunk on this very same path not too long ago, but her father had slung her over his shoulders to keep her from petting it. She still didn’t know why. 

The butterfly made a sharp left, darting away from the path at a steady pace. Clarke slowed, brows pinching together as she looked between the butterfly and the way back to the village. Her parents had always told her never to stray from the paths leading to and from their village - that even though the land and people around them were Trikru, same as them, it didn’t mean she was safe all the time. Especially if she got too close to the Bad People. 

Clarke nodded to herself, breaking into a brisk run to catch back up to the butterfly. She wouldn’t go too far. She never did.

Besides, despite the fact that her parents had never told her what the Bad People looked like, Clarke was sure she would know when she saw one. After all, she knew what Badness looked like; Bad People probably couldn’t climb trees as well as she could, or run as fast. That would be her first clue.

Clarke caught up to the butterfly in no time, leaping from tiny boulders to forest floor and back again as it zigzagged through the trees. They were making their way up a sharper incline now, and Clarke became afraid that she might lose the butterfly as her breathing grew more ragged.

Perhaps this one wasn’t meant to be her friend today. 

When they reached the hill’s crest, Clarke stopped, placing her hands on her knees as she struggled to catch her breath. By the time she lifted her head back up, the butterfly was gone.

She sighed, fighting the prickle of tears in her eyes as she continued to heave her breaths. The moment she saw the running creek at the base of the hill in front of her, though, her sadness was replaced by a surge of delight. It was just what she needed.

Besides, there would always be another butterfly - one with prettier wings, perhaps. She hoped for purple, or maybe even green. Clarke had always loved green -

She was nearly to the creek when she noticed the girl. 

Hunched over with arms hugging her knees to her chest sat a girl in the rocky creekbed, her back turned to Clarke as her shoulders shook. The girl was a few yards over to the left from where Clarke stood and looked to be about her same age, so it only made sense to go sit next to her. 

Moments later, Clarke plopped down beside the girl, facing her with legs criss-crossed. The other girl yelped in surprise at Clarke’s presence, scrambling back a few feet. 

Clarke simply smiled, tapping her feet against the rocks as the girl stared wide-eyed at her. It was only then that Clarke saw how puffy the girl’s eyes were, a fresh tear escaping the girl’s notice as it slithered down her cheek. 

Clarke’s smile fell to a frown as she tilted her head to the side, curious.

“Why are you crying?” she asked, just loud enough to reach the girl over the sound of the water. 

Clarke wished they weren’t so far apart. It wasn’t as easy to talk to someone from a distance. 

The girl sniffed, brows pinching together as she continued to stare at Clarke. She rubbed the back of her hand across her nose and looked down at her lap in the next instant, cheeks reddening significantly. Even though the girl wasn’t looking at her anymore, Clarke could tell she was embarrassed now. 

“Because I am sad,” the girl replied eventually, tucking a piece of hair behind her ears as she began to fiddle with her boot laces. Clarke hadn’t noticed it before, but the girl’s hair was just short of wild - brown, frizzy, and barely contained beneath a cloth headband. 

“Why are you sad?” Clarke asked in return, scooting a little closer to the girl who watched her cautiously.

The girl stared at Clarke for another moment, allowing the sounds of the forest to envelop them as the sun bespeckled the creekbed in flecks of gold. Although she looked very displeased to have been asked, the girl finally spoke up in answer after a while.

“I have to leave my mother and father soon.”

Clarke quirked her head even further to the side, confused. The girl talked funny - more like the grown-ups in the village than like Clarke - and her voice was smooth as a wood flute. 

Clarke inched closer yet again, propping her elbows on her knees to better rest her head in her hands. The girl took notice.

“Why would you have to do that?”

The girl sighed sadly, letting her shoulders deflate and her head droop for a moment. Her wild hair moved with her, settling whenever she did. After a moment, the girl looked back up at Clarke, mirroring positions as she propped her elbows on her knees and rested her head. 

“Because I have to go to Polis. I have to get trained with everyone else.” 

Clarke’s eyes narrowed, her confusion growing for a moment before - _ oh! _

Her brows shot up, eyes growing wide as saucers as she sat up perfectly straight. The girl mirrored her movements once again.

“You’re a..._ natblida?!” _

The girl seemed to shrink back at the name, nodding her head reluctantly as Clarke continued to gawk at her. 

She must’ve been 8 years old then -- less than two years older than Clarke. That’s the age they always were when the _ fleimkepas _came to take them to Polis. Most of them were already well into their training by then.

Upon seeing the girl’s continually worsening expression, though, Clarke made a conscious effort to close her mouth as she inched even closer to the girl. They were only a couple feet apart now. 

“But...why can’t your mommy and daddy come with you?” 

The girl’s eyes immediately welled up, tears pooling and spilling down her cheeks anew. They were green like the tree leaves, which made everything even more sad for some reason. 

“It’s the rules, I guess… They think it helps us focus better.”

Clarke scrunched up her nose at that, drawing the smallest of smiles from the other girl. It didn’t make any sense.

“But they can come visit?”

The girl’s smile faltered, the tears falling faster now as she scrubbed anxiously at them, her long sleeves bunched in her fists. She shook her head rather solemnly, looking down at her boots as she sniffled. 

It was Clarke’s turn to slump now as she processed what that meant. She didn’t know what she would do if someone came and took her away from her parents. Especially if she wouldn’t be allowed to see them after that. Just the thought of it made her eyes prickle and her head hurt. 

She imagined she might do the same as this girl - run out into the middle of the woods where no one could find her and give her tears back to the earth. If someone _ were _ to find her, though, she imagined she’d probably want a hug. 

“Do you want a hug?”

The girl looked back up at Clarke rather slowly, head quirking a little to the side as she studied Clarke curiously - as if she hadn’t been asked such a thing before. After a moment, though, with tears streaming down her face, the girl nodded somewhat bashfully. 

Clarke smiled delightedly, scooting over the rocks until their knees were touching. She wrapped her arms around the girl’s neck and rested her head on the girl’s shoulder, brown hair tickling her nose and cheeks. The girl was rigid at first, appearing to not know what to do before she figured it out, wrapping her arms around Clarke’s back. Her head fit very nicely in the crook of Clarke’s neck and shoulder.

“I’m Clarke,” she said after a bit, blowing gently at the strand of brunette caught on the bridge of her nose. The girl adjusted her grip a little bit, leaning more fully into Clarke.

“My name is Lexa.”

A nice name. Though Lexa was a bit stiffer than Clarke, she was comfortably warm and seemed to loosen up the longer they hugged. If there was one thing Clarke knew she was good at, it was hugs. (And wood carving. She was also good at that.)

They hugged until Clarke’s shoulder dried and a little longer after that. When Clarke finally leaned back, Lexa met her gaze with a bit of sparkle returned to her eyes. Her cheeks flushed the longer Clarke stared at her, unabashed. 

“Are you from _ Wytgeda? _” Lexa asked quietly, looking down at Clarke’s hands where she’d caught strands of brown between her fingertips. 

“_ Chergeda,” _Clarke answered easily. She began weaving the tiniest of braids into Lexa’s hair, and Lexa watched her do it.

The two were neighboring villages - Lexa’s specializing in ironwork and weaponry, Clarke’s in woodwork and healing methods. It explained why they’d never met before. 

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No, but I have a best friend. His name is Wells. He’s really good at carving arrows,” Clarke stated matter-of-factly. Lexa smiled, clearly trying to picture it.

“Do you have a best friend?” Clarke asked, her clumsy fingers still weaving through Lexa’s hair. Lexa’s expression immediately became thoughtful, eyes upturned towards the sky as she contemplated. 

“I _ think _ so... Her name is Anya. She’s older than me, and she’s my sparring partner.” Lexa’s lips pressed into a line, her brows creasing. “She is nice to me...sometimes.”

Clarke’s nose wrinkled at that, and Lexa blushed even harder to see it. That simply wouldn’t do. A best friend was supposed to be nice to you _ all _the time - that’s why they were the best. 

_ “I’ll _ be your best friend - your _ new _ best friend,” Clarke proclaimed proudly, lifting her chin and beaming at Lexa, who giggled and wrapped her hand around Clarke’s wrist where she continued to braid. 

“But what about Wells? I thought _ he _ was your best friend.”

Clarke’s movements stilled momentarily, narrowing her eyes at Lexa who looked thoroughly amused by the dramatics of it all. After a moment, though, an idea struck her and Clarke grinned rather victoriously. 

“He can be my best friend who carves arrows, and you can be my best friend who has braids in her hair.” 

Lexa giggled even more joyfully at that, looking down at Clarke’s hands as they layered yet another messy braid into Lexa’s thick hair. She kept her grip on Clarke’s wrist, watching with fascination as the other girl continued to work.

They stayed like that until the sun seemed to bear down from directly above, warming them from head-to-toe - so much so that the baby hairs framing each girl’s face stuck to their temples and sweat soaked their brows. Lexa’s elbow was resting on Clarke’s knee now, her eyes closed in contentment as Clarke continued to layer tiny braids in random places. 

“If you could have magical powers, what would they be?”

Lexa wrinkled her nose, staring up at Clarke as if she found the question very silly. Still, she answered.

“I would be invisible, I guess.”

Clarke frowned, unimpressed. She would much rather fly. 

“Why that one?”

Lexa was quiet for a while, seeming to turn the question over in her mind like Wells would rotate an arrowhead between his fingertips. Clarke had never seen someone wait so long to answer a question.

“I suppose…it would be nice not to be looked at all the time. I don’t really like it very much… Also, if I was invisible, I don’t think I would have to go to Polis. They probably wouldn’t be able to find me, which would be okay.”

Clarke nodded, immediately understanding. She supposed it would be nice for someone like Lexa to choose when she got to be seen.

“What’s your favorite smell?”

Lexa giggled, clearly amused by the question. She tapped an absent-minded rhythm on Clarke’s leg, thinking.

“Probably the pastries Mags makes when the leaves begin to fall from the trees. The whole village lines up just to watch her bake them.” 

Clarke grinned, trying to picture it. She didn’t know who Mags was, but she imagined an old lady with kind eyes and long silver hair. That seemed to fit.

The two girls fell into an easy silence after that, Clarke continuing her handiwork as Lexa traced shapes into the faded square of fabric near her knee. Birds chirped and bugs did what bugs do, surrounding them with sound that was only slightly more audible than that of the water rushing past them. 

“Do you like birds? I can carve you a bird,” Clarke said after a while, drawing a soft smile from Lexa.

“I would like that, Clarke.”

Clarke smiled cheerfully, already picturing the kind of bird she’d make. One of the blue ones that liked to hop from branch to branch on the tree outside Clarke’s hut, maybe. She’d have to find some blue paint.

“I can make it in five days if I work really hard. Maybe you can come by and have some of my mommy’s rabbit stew and I can give it to you!” 

Lexa’s face fell immediately, her eyes blinking slowly open. They were glossy and melancholy, and Clarke instantly wished she hadn’t said anything at all. 

“The _ fleimkepa _comes in three.”

Clarke’s braiding stopped, her hands falling to her lap as her eyes began to water. Lexa was leaving so soon. But they’d just met, and now they were best friends. She couldn’t leave - not now. 

Not before Clarke could carve her a bird. 

Noticing Clarke’s changing expression, Lexa sat up straight, intertwining their fingers together as she looked at Clarke in earnest, reassuring.

“Don’t be sad, Clarke - you can come see me in Polis! It just...might not be for awhile.”

Clarke smiled brilliantly at that, mood immediately improved as she squeezed Lexa’s hands in hers and leaned their foreheads together. Clarke made a silly face and, with their heads pressed together like that, it made things much funnier as the two girls burst into a fit of giggles. 

They stayed that way until the sun’s heat made it unbearable. Then, Clarke got an idea. 

She shot to her feet, startling Lexa a little as she reached for the other girl’s hands. Lexa complied immediately, letting Clarke pull her up. The next moment, Clarke was leading Lexa straight to the creek, carelessly ripping her boots off and splashing into the cool water. 

Lexa followed after only the slightest hesitation, casting her boots aside and wading in to join her friend as Clarke flopped onto her back. The two girls laughed and splashed about as the sun continued to beat down, providing a lovely contrast to the crisp creekwater as they played. 

Clarke thought of the butterfly then, of its beautiful blue wings with black spots. She never would’ve found the creek if it hadn’t been for that butterly. She never would’ve found Lexa. 

She wondered if it was possible to thank a butterfly, if there was a treat they enjoyed more than others. Clarke would have to ask her father. He was very good with butterflies. 

For now, though, Clarke was content to hold Lexa’s hand, the two girls equal parts wonderment and joy as the waters of the creek traced their outline into the earth beneath them.

\---

“Promise you’ll be here tomorrow?”

Clarke nodded vigorously, squeezing Lexa’s hands between them as they stood at the fork in the pathway between their two villages. It was a bit further along in the path Clarke had veered from, and the two girls stood together beneath the trees as the sky grew more fuchsia the longer they stared at each other.

“Promise.” 

The next moment, Lexa was launching forward and throwing her arms around Clarke’s neck, catching the younger girl by surprise for only the briefest of seconds before the hug was enthusiastically returned. They squeezed each other as tightly as they could, uncaring of their wet clothes as Lexa swayed them both a little. 

When they finally broke apart, it took them another few moments to part with one another, neither wanting to be the one to take the first step away. Finally, though, Lexa stepped back, still holding one of Clarke’s hands and squeezing it a little.

“See you tomorrow, Clarke.”

“See you, Lexa.”

The two girls took turns glancing over their shoulders at one another until each one was just a dot on the forest’s horizon. Even when Clarke could no longer see Lexa, though, she knew she was there - somewhere past the fork in the road, just beyond where the eye could see.

It brought an even bigger smile to Clarke’s face just thinking of it. That Lexa was there, had been there, and now Clarke knew it - knew _ her. _

Clarke was skipping by the time she got home, bouncing right past her mother in the kitchen area and out to her father’s woodshed in the back of their hut. She had a lot of work to do and not very much time to do it. 

She couldn’t wait for Lexa to see, to have something that Clarke made for her. More importantly, she couldn’t wait to see _ Lexa. _

It was thoughts of her new best friend with the braids in her hair that kept Clarke working through dinnertime, past when her mother called her in for a bath and long after her father normally read her stories from one of the Old Books. 

Clarke couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, too excited and focused on her task to leave the shed even after her father came in to light the oil lamp on his work desk. 

Sometime later - long after her head began to droop and her eyelids grew far too heavy to keep open - her father had come in and scooped her from the workbench, tucking her sleeping body into her bed furs in the corner of their hut as her mother watched on in adoration. 

That night, Clarke would dream of wild hair and warm hugs in the blazing afternoon sunlight. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lexa was waiting at the fork in the road by the time Clarke got there. 

As soon as she saw Clarke coming down the pathway, she broke into a run, a wide toothy grin splitting her features. Clarke had started running too, laughing all the way, before she’d had to throw on the brakes to avoid a body-to-body collision with Lexa. It didn’t seem to matter, though; the two of them went toppling into the dirt, giggling and shrieking as they rolled around in an airtight bear hug. 

Lexa, being taller, older, and legitimately trained of the two of them, ended up pinning Clarke on her back with the girl’s hands holding Clarke’s near her head as she smiled down in pure jubilance. Her wild hair was framed by the golden sunlight of early morning, eyes positively _ gleaming _ with exhilaration, and Clarke was absolutely sure that she’d never seen someone so happy to see her. 

“Hi, Clarke.”

“Hi, Lexa.” 

Clarke was absolutely sure she’d never _ been _ so excited to see someone either. 

\---

“Favorite time of day?”

“Sunset. I like the pretty colors.”

“Favorite animal?”

“Birds. All kinds. Or bears. I want to pet one, but mommy and daddy won’t let me.”

“Favorite color?”

“Green. Like the leaves - like your eyes.” 

That answer made Lexa particularly happy. 

The older girl had been asking Clarke a series of random, rapid-fire questions since the moment they’d set off toward the creek. She’d started with questions about Clarke’s favorite type of stew, her favorite memory (_ rabbit, the first time her father had let her ride a horse with him _), and stuff about what Clarke liked to do on a daily basis, which she told Lexa changed from day-to-day. She hadn’t given Clarke the chance to ask her any questions in return, which was okay with Clarke because she liked to watch Lexa’s reactions to each answer. 

They were back at the creek now, and Lexa was determined to take Clarke upstream a little so that she could watch Lexa catch some fish. Apparently, Lexa’s parents had told her that she needed to bring some back for their mid-afternoon meal, but she had only agreed to do so if they let her bring Clarke, too. So, Clarke was meeting Lexa’s parents today.

They made a game of hopping along the big stones next to the creek, giggling each time one of them would slip and get their boots wet. Lexa’s legs were longer than Clarke’s, her strides more confident, but she made sure Clarke kept pace with her. As they went, they traded every minute detail of their lives up until that point, lingering on the things they liked best and the people they loved most. 

Clarke learned that Lexa’s mother was a Trigeda diplomat, her father a blacksmith, and the two of them were often summoned to Polis at the Commander’s bequest. That would leave Lexa to spend days and nights with Anya and her mother, who had been designated by the consortium of_ fleimkepas _ to train their village’s only _ natblida. _ Anya’s mother was among the most skilled of Trikru warriors, her reputation well-known and respected by everyone in _ Wytgeda _and everywhere that surrounded it, but Lexa didn’t really know why - nor did she care to find out. She just liked that Anya’s mother made really delicious fruit cakes. 

Clarke, for her part, told Lexa that her mother was a healer and her father a carpenter, and she loved them both more than the whole, wide world. Clarke attended formal schooling in the village during the colder months and assisted where her parents needed her in the warmer ones, gradually being groomed to assume one of their trades once she got old enough. Right now, she was leaning more towards carpentry, but only because she’d gotten so good at carving birds.

Once they reached the small lake the creek dumped into, Lexa tugged Clarke by the hand into the shallowest of waters. She then pulled out the hunting knife that’d been tucked into her cloth belt, instructing Clarke to watch as she waded a little deeper into the water, all levity gone from her as she became a predator amongst prey. 

Clarke watched with eyes blown wide as Lexa struck her knife into the water, dunking her head beneath it for a few seconds before jumping back up with knife held high, a freshly-skewered fish wriggling about on the blade. Clarke’s mouth fell open in awe, gratifying the smug look on Lexa’s face with a sound of admiration. Clarke watched as Lexa walked to shore and bent to make the finishing touches on the fish, straightening only when its little body had completely ceased movement. 

That was the first in a pile of freshwater trout that Lexa would catch. She was methodical and humane, never pausing to draw the process out longer than necessary. Clarke just stood there and watched, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as Lexa went back and forth from lake to shore with her loot. She’d paused to splash Clarke once, but had then resigned herself to grinning more proudly with each new fish caught as Clarke hooped and hollered.

(Lexa was clearly trying to impress the younger girl, and Clarke was nothing if not easily-impressed.)

\---

In the end, Clarke and Lexa wound up bringing six fish back to _ Wytgeda, _Lexa carrying most of them (they were a little too long for Clarke’s arms). 

The older girl talked excitedly about her parents, about how she couldn’t wait for Clarke to meet them, how she’d told them all about her new best friend she’d met at the creek. By the time they got to Lexa’s hut, the sun was at high noon and Clarke was beyond hungry. 

_ Wytgeda _ looked exactly like _ Chergeda _ to Clarke - only with a lot more stalls for blacksmiths and weapons workers as opposed to healer bays. Lexa’s hut was slightly larger than Clarke’s and on the opposite side of her village, but none of that mattered when Lexa’s parents emerged from its front door. 

Her mother was tall and looked exactly like Lexa - wild brown hair and a pretty face with kind eyes. Her father was even taller, all muscles with long, dark hair and a beard down to his chest. He was where Lexa got her green eyes from.

They greeted their daughter quietly, without hugs or the kinds of exclamations Clarke could expect from her parents when she’d done something good like bring home a meal. Instead, they seemed to absorb their pride inward, letting it shine from their eyes and the doting manner in which Lexa’s mother caressed her cheek as her father accepted the fish with a grateful nod of his head. 

Clarke was welcomed into their home in the same way - quietly, with a positively beaming Lexa there to guide her by the hand into their hut as her parents watched them. She then led Clarke over to what had to have been her bed furs, plopping them both down as her parents began to prep their meal across the way. 

“Would you…?” Lexa used her free hand to tug gently at one of the braids Clarke had given her, blush painting her cheeks more deeply with each passing second. It was then that Clarke noticed her handiwork from the previous day had been left untouched, a little frayed from having been slept on. 

It was Clarke’s turn to beam now, nodding enthusiastically and scooting closer so that her knees were touching Lexa’s. The older girl’s blush deepened impossibly so, ducking her head bashfully as Clarke began undoing her work from the day before, already crafting a vision of what she wanted to do today. 

Again, Lexa watched her work, settling her elbow on Clarke’s knee as she appeared the picture of tranquility. As Clarke wove braids around the crown of Lexa’s head, she couldn’t help but think that maybe she was making a new favorite memory. 

\---

The fish was good and Lexa’s parents were kind, asking easy questions about Clarke’s life and family as Lexa looked on in glee. When the two girls finished eating, Lexa’s parents excused them from the table and the older girl insisted she show Clarke around her village. 

Clarke happily agreed, allowing Lexa to pull her by the hand to all of her favorite people, places, and things. This eventually turned into a game of chase as Lexa weaved in and out of merchant stalls, giggling and shrieking each time Clarke would catch her in a hug from behind (often only after Lexa would allow her to).

They played, chased, and explored like that until the sun fell behind the trees, Lexa looking positively bereft when Clarke announced she’d better return home. The two of them then returned to Lexa’s hut, where Lexa’s father insisted he walk Clarke home to make sure she got back safely. Lexa, of course, came along.

The two girls held hands the entire way back, swinging their arms between them as they talked of all the things they’d do if they became wolves one day. (Lexa would only be part of the pack Clarke belonged to, and only if they got to hunt together all the time.)

By the time they arrived at Clarke’s hut, the stars were dusting the sky up above, and Clarke’s parents nearly collapsed in on themselves at the sight of their daughter safely returned to them. They’d never let her stay out this late before, but had made an exception for Clarke to be with her new best friend. It didn’t make their relief any less sweet, though.

While Clarke’s parents thanked and conversed with Lexa’s father, Lexa held Clarke in the tightest of hugs, her head resting in the crook of Clarke’s neck as though she’d be content to stay there forever. Clarke really wouldn’t mind it either.

When it was time for Lexa to leave, the two girls kept each other in sight for as long as they could, the older girl trailing a little behind her father as they retreated further and further into the woods. As soon as Lexa was out of sight, Clarke all but sprinted to her father’s woodshed, settling in to resume her work from the night before. 

Later that night, her father came in to carry her sleeping body to bed just as before, calling her mother over to gaze at the smile pulling at their daughter’s lips even in dreams. 

Lexa was waiting outside of Clarke’s front door the moment the sun rose the next morning. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Are you afraid?”

Lexa was quiet for a moment, chewing at her bottom lip as she stared up at the stars overhead. The two girls were laying in a patch of grass a little behind Clarke’s hut, gazing at the night sky through a break in the canopy up above. 

“Yes.”

It was a whisper, the sound of an admission not easily made. Clarke could only squeeze Lexa’s hand where their fingers were intertwined between them. 

The two girls had spent another beautiful day together, exploring Clarke’s village and joining some of the other kids in a game of hide and seek in the afternoon. Wells was among the group who asked them to play, only slightly begrudging the fact that Clarke and Lexa insisted on being a packaged deal for the entirety of the game. It couldn’t have worked any other way, though, as Clarke and Lexa had refused to let go of each other’s hands the entire time. 

By the time evening had come, the two girls were drenched in sweat and smiling from ear-to-ear, greeting Lexa’s parents on the forest path when they came with bread and fish. Clarke’s parents had invited them for dinner via Lexa’s father, and they’d graciously accepted on the condition that they could contribute in some way. 

Bread was broken and drinks shared as the adults conversed and the girls giggled, making faces across the table at each other as they ate. It only took a single shared look for the girls to know when they wanted be excused, scrambling off into the woods as the sun disappeared for the day.

They had then chosen a spot in the forest to make their own where they’d been ever since.

“But...it won’t be too bad, will it? You get to go to the city and… that can’t be so bad, right?”

Lexa turned her head to meet Clarke’s gaze on her, a crease between her brows as she pressed her lips together.

“I don’t know, Clarke. I have never been to Polis before… My parents have and they say it’s nice, but… I don’t know.”

Clarke nodded, considering. She had never been to the city either, so she didn’t really know what to say. She only wished that she could make the sadness in Lexa’s eyes go away.

“I’ll come to visit as soon as I can, okay? We can spend all day together and go exploring and eat all the sweets we want to.”

Lexa immediately brightened at that, squeezing Clarke’s hand between them as she leaned in to press a kiss to the tip of Clarke’s nose. It was a sweet and silly thing to do, so Clarke giggled as Lexa blushed and shrunk back into the grass. Clarke didn’t know why - they were always so affectionate with one another. 

“I would like that very much,” Lexa said after a while, smiling softly at Clarke who smiled easily back. 

Clarke didn’t really know what else to say - didn’t really want to say anything else. She didn’t want to think about tomorrow, or what it would be like to watch her best friend with the braids in her hair leave for the city forever. She didn’t want to think about how Lexa would feel to have to leave her mother and father behind.

Clarke didn’t want to think. She just wanted to lay here, holding hands with Lexa and gazing at the stars. 

So, that’s what she did. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Clarke couldn’t stop crying. 

She knew she should try to be strong, try not to cry, but she couldn’t help it. She was so young, and she didn’t think she’d ever been so sad in her entire life. She didn’t know what to do. 

Lexa stood a little ways away from her, tears streaming down her face and lips trembling as her father kneeled before her, speaking just loudly enough for his daughter to hear. She nodded at his words, smiling a trembling smile as he wiped the tears from her cheeks. Lexa’s mother wasn’t smiling, though, standing behind Lexa’s father with closed eyes and a shaky hand covering her mouth. She was doing her best to stay strong for her daughter, but Clarke could see the tears slip out from beneath her closed eyelids. 

After a moment, the _ fleimkepa _ waiting just outside the iron-arched entrance to _ Wytgeda _ said something quiet to Lexa’s parents, motioning rather solemnly toward the horses where two other _ natblidas _ from surrounding villages watched and waited. Their cheeks were tear-streaked too, as were the faces of the villagers who’d come to bid their farewells to their one and only _ natblida _. 

It seemed like no one could help but cry at this point.

With one last hug sandwiched between her parents, Lexa backed away, startling a little when the _ fleimkepa _ \- a bald man, tall and scary-looking - came to place his hands on her shoulders. When the two of them turned their back on the village, Clarke could only weep harder, feeling as though her chest might split right open with how much it hurt not to give Lexa one last hug goodbye.

The moment Lexa was seated on the horse in front of the _ fleimkepa _ , though, she suddenly whipped around, looking back desperately in search of someone - as though she just realized she’d forgotten her most important thing. Finally, her eyes locked onto Clarke, eyes wide and horrified as it dawned on her that she hadn’t given her best friend one last hug. Lexa started to sob, wriggling in the saddle as if to dismount, but the _ fleimkepa _placed his hands on her shoulders and held her tightly, keeping her in place. 

When the _ natblida _ caravan began to move, Lexa wailed even harder, looking back between Clarke and her parents, reaching a hand towards the village in desperation - as if that might bring her back to them. Clarke was crying harder than she ever had, and when she looked over at Lexa’s parents - clutching each other, shoulders shaking and tears falling as they watched their daughter leave them - it began to feel as though she might never see Lexa again.

Suddenly, a wave of panic washed over Clarke; not only had she not hugged Lexa goodbye, but she’d also forgotten to give her the bird. The _ bluebird. _The bird she thought would take her five days to carve but had only taken her two nights and evenings of hard work to finish. 

Lexa couldn’t go to the city without it.

Clarke took off at a sprint, ignoring the protests of the villagers as she ran after the caravan. 

“Lexa! _ Lexa! Wait!!” _

The moment she heard her name, Lexa craned her neck around in the saddle, eyes blowing wide open the moment they locked on to Clarke chasing after the group. She tugged on the _ fleimkepa’s _ sleeve, pointing emphatically at Clarke and very clearly demanding they stop the horses. He seemed to be ignoring her, though, keeping his back turned to Clarke as Lexa all but screamed in his face.

Despite the fact that the horses weren’t even moving at a canter yet, Clarke struggled to keep up, her short legs making difficult work of the terrain as she pushed them faster than they’d ever gone before. After another moment, though, the _ fleimkepa _ signalled for the caravan leader to halt, settling an exceptionally sour glare on Clarke.

None of that mattered, though - not when Lexa was practically _ throwing _ herself out of the saddle to get to Clarke, breaking into a dead sprint the moment her feet touched the ground. The two girls collided like comets in the night sky mere seconds later, Lexa’s sheer determination and strength the only things keeping them from tumbling to the ground as they sobbed into each other’s hair. 

“I’m so sorry, Clarke, I’m so sorry - I should’ve said - I should’ve...”

Lexa couldn’t finish the thought past her hiccuping sobs, her hands trembling and desperate as they searched for a grip on the back of Clarke’s shirt. Lexa buried her head in her usual spot in Clarke’s neck, allowing the younger girl to hold her as they cried into one another. Clarke ran her fingers through Lexa’s hair, careful not to disturb the braids she’d left for Lexa to find when she got lonely.

Far too soon, the _ fleimkepa _ cleared his throat from behind Lexa, startling both girls apart a little as he watched them disapprovingly. Clarke watched as Lexa’s expression flashed with anger, transforming her features in a way Clarke had never seen before. It was gone in an instant, though, replaced only with devastation as she looked down at her friend, helpless.

Clarke forced a trembling smile as she reached into her pants pocket, pulling out the tiny wooden bluebird her father had looped onto a hide-leather necklace chain. She held it between them in the palm of her hand, watching as a little light returned to Lexa’s eyes, her mouth falling open in awe. 

“You finished it?!”

Clarke could only nod, watching as her friend took the carving between her fingers and turned it over as gingerly as anyone had ever held anything. They were so close together that Clarke doubted anyone else could see what they were doing, which was exactly how Clarke wanted it to be. 

“Oh, Clarke… It’s _ perfect.” _

The next moment, the older girl was reaching up to pull the necklace over her head, looking at Clarke as though she was the moon that hung the stars. When the bird found its home at the base of her neck, Clarke couldn’t help but smile, reaching up to touch the bird where it now kept Lexa company. 

The older girl wrapped Clarke in her arms, squeezing as tightly as she could as Clarke squeezed just as tightly back. The harder they squeezed, the less it seemed to hurt.

When the girls could no longer keep the _ fleimkepa _ at bay, Lexa backed away slowly, refusing to take her eyes from Clarke even after she was securely back in the saddle. Clarke kept her gaze, smiling with a quiver at the corner of her lips as she watched Lexa become an ant and then a speck of dust on the forest’s horizon. 

She didn’t know how long she stood there alone in the depths of the forest, too far to be seen from _ Wytgeda _ and not close enough to be seen by Lexa, who was now long gone. She stood there long after the sky became pink and past when the stars took over, tears still streaking her cheeks as her feet refused to budge. 

The moment Clarke felt the familiar weight of her father’s arms wrapping around her, that’s when Clarke knew she was safe again. He let her cry into his shirt, quiet in his comfort as he carried her through the woods beneath the stars. 

By the time they returned to their home in _ Chergeda _, Clarke’s mother was ready and waiting to hold Clarke as she cried, keeping her daughter as close to her beating heart as was humanly possible. After only a short while, its steady beating lulled Clarke into a peaceful sleep, as welcome as it was inevitable. 

When the sun rose the next day and Clarke to greet it, a great sadness seemed to hang over her head like a cloud. Still, this morning was better than yesterday morning had been; where yesterday she had something to dread, today she had something to hope for - something to look forward to. 

That something made her steps a little lighter, made her smiles a little easier as she moved through the rest of her day. She thought of how long it might take to get to Polis, how soon she might be able to leave, and what she might bring with her when she did. 

It was enough to have her skipping everywhere she went by the time the sun reached the highest point in the sky. Despite her parents’ looks of concern, Clarke knew they’d understand soon enough. She was still sad, but she would get to see her best friend with the braids soon, and that was enough to make her look forward to being happy. They would understand.

And Clarke would get to see Lexa again.


	2. chapter 2

_November 2141_

Clarke couldn’t keep still.

It wasn’t just that the horse was cumbersome or the wind unseasonably chilled -- she just. She couldn’t.

  
For probably the fifteenth time that day, Clarke removed Lexa’s letter from the inner-pocket of her coat. Despite the trembling in her fingertips, she smoothed the parchment out as gently as she might stroke the wings of a hatchling. The slant of the lettering was as familiar to her as her own handwriting now -- though much more pleasing to the eye. She smiled down at the page, feeling an urge to hug the letter to her chest with the feelings it stirred in her. 

  
This was it. This was the letter she’d been waiting three years and four months to receive.

  
This meant she could finally see Lexa again.

  
The two girls had been sending letters back and forth to each other every week since they’d parted. At first, it’d mainly been Lexa who’d sent the letters, detailing every moment of her days in Polis, the people she’d met there, and what she thought of it all. Every now and again, she’d also include a small gift that made her think of Clarke. (Often enough for Clarke’s father to have crafted a wooden chest to store her trinkets and fabrics in. It now sat at the foot of her bed, filled to the brim with every part and parcel Lexa had ever sent.)

  
Clarke had begged her father for penmanship lessons, less than confident in her ability to do much beyond puzzle at the lines and shapes on each page. It was uncommon for people in the Trigeda villages to know how to read at all, let alone craft words for themselves; at Clarke’s age, it was practically unheard of for either skill to be possessed. But Clarke had been determined, and Lexa had given her a reason -- which was more than most in Trigeda could say. 

  
(It was common practice for nightbloods to have both skills, as the position of Commander required full literacy at every age. So, if Lexa could do it, Clarke needed to do it, too. That was just how they worked.)

  
Within the first few months of relentless dedication to practice, Clarke was reading and writing all on her own, no longer scrambling to her father’s lap to have him act as her voice. Though Clarke’s vocabulary was limited and she didn’t have as much of her own life to contribute, she knew Lexa appreciated the lengths Clarke had gone to for her -- to keep her company in a place determined to leave her in solitary.

  
Since the city messengers could only make personal correspondence deliveries once a month given more pressing demands, that meant four letters per parcel each way -- if not more on some occasions. Neither Lexa nor Clarke had ever missed a week, making something of a religion out of the process of writing, compiling, and delivering all of their letters in woven parcels to the courier. 

  
Clarke would wait at the statue marking the entrance to Chergeda on the first of every month, craning her neck in search of the messenger. Her heart would practically leap out of her chest the moment she spotted them, sprinting out to meet whoever it was and accepting the package as though it was something sacred. 

  
Clarke truly knew no better feeling.

  
Lexa’s letters were always interesting. Her weekly schedule had been the same since she’d gotten to Polis, but the older girl still found her situation changing from week to week depending on a number of factors. For instance, who would she be sparring with that week? What would her spiritual lessons consist of? How much time would she have to spend with Titus one-on-one? (The latter often had the most effect on Lexa’s tone in her recap of the week’s events.) 

  
Lexa’s letters were always hopeful. No matter what had happened that week, no matter how many hits she’d taken in one form or another, Lexa had hope -- hope of better future outcomes, hope of better days and weeks, hope of friendlier faces and kinder voices. Hope of more. 

  
Hope that she’d get to see Clarke soon.

  
Up until this point, the two girls had been kept apart by pure circumstance. The _fleimkepas_ had designed each day in Polis to be a test for the nightbloods, which included prohibiting the divergence from daily routine. It was in this crucial time of basic training that the nightbloods divorced themselves from all other societal functions to build their foundations as the most elite fighters in the Trigeda nation. The group of them hadn’t gotten a day off since they’d arrived in Polis over three years ago, training in a more regimented manner than any other warriors across their land -- only taking sporadic days for themselves when their bodies required them to. To Clarke’s knowledge, Lexa hadn’t yet taken one of those days.

  
That had all changed last week, though.

  
Rather suddenly, Titus, the head _fleimkepa_, had announced a fortnight's hiatus for all. Apparently, the Commander had made an unprecedented request that had required the _fleimkepas’_ presence at some major climax in his latest military campaign, which would more than likely take them at least a couple of weeks to attend to. The Commander was a mercurial man with avid beliefs in the Flame’s power, prone to mood swings often resulting in senseless battles with Azgeda or Rock Line -- his two sworn adversaries with whom Trikru was constantly at war. His reliance on the mystics of the Flame to sway the results in battle had prompted his summons to the _fleimkepas_, and it had sent a ripple of uncertainty through their nation that even Clarke could feel.

  
None of that truly mattered to her, though. 

  
As soon as she’d gotten Lexa’s last letter, she’d dropped everything and demanded her father escort her to the capitol. To her surprise, he’d agreed rather easily, citing his need to attend to some business of his own at one of the city’s outer trading posts. Delighted, Clarke had then insisted they leave the following day; she’d already missed five days with Lexa due to the logistics of the letter’s delivery, and she wasn’t about to miss any more. 

  
“If you keep up with that shaking, you’re going to throw us both off this beast.”

  
Her father’s voice shook Clarke out of her thoughts, lilted with annoyance. She looked over her shoulder rather sheepishly, pressing her lips together in silent apology as she stilled her restless legs. He softened to see it, squeezing her a little closer to him where he held the reins of the horse from around her torso. 

  
“Everything’s going to be just fine, Clarke. You’ll have several days with Lexa in the tower while I deal my trades. What’s there to worry about?”

  
Clarke looked down at the horse’s swaying shoulders, feeling that prickly sensation up and down her arms as she fought the urge to fidget. 

  
The prickling had started yesterday, leaving her on the verge of bursting with agitation every time the mere _thought_ of Lexa crossed her mind. Some sort of fluttering creature had gotten stuck in the pit of her stomach, too -- desperate to get out, it seemed. They were the strangest feelings, and the combination had made her want to pace the entirety of her village while simultaneously standing completely still in the dead silence of a cold night. (She’d switched between both activities since yesterday morning.)

  
None of these feelings made sense. None of these feelings had ever been explained to Clarke, nor had she felt them before. She didn’t even want to _think_ about explaining them to anyone else.

  
“What if she doesn’t like me anymore?” 

  
She hadn’t really thought about asking that question, nor had she intended to. Once the words were out, though, Clarke realized it might’ve been the question she’d wanted to ask all along.

  
Her father was quiet for a bit, and Clarke was too afraid to turn around and look at him. Then, finally:

  
“She wrote to you _every week_ for nearly three-and-a-half years, sweetheart. Would you do that for someone you didn’t like?”

  
No, Clarke thought, she supposed she wouldn’t. She supposed Lexa wouldn’t, either. 

  
The thought of it straightened her spine a little. Though the fluttering persisted and her desire to fidget every which way remained, the reminder that Lexa actually _did_ want to see Clarke as much as Clarke wanted to see Lexa was enough. Enough to quiet her mind. Enough to help her stick to the thought that, yes, it was entirely possible for all of this strangeness to be in Clarke’s head -- and Clarke’s head, alone.

  
She wondered what it was called when such feelings got stuck in a person’s mind like this. She also wondered if she’d ever stop feeling like she swallowed a rowdy sparrow whose sole mission was to keep her from eating a proper meal.

  
She hoped she’d find out some day.

\---

“It’s magnificent, don’t you think? Never gets old.”

  
The admiration in her father’s voice was clear. Clarke found that it made whatever raucousness was happening inside of her chest and stomach worse. 

  
From the top of a hill upon which they’d found a clear vantage point, the entirety of Polis appeared to grow from the trees, themselves, that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. Mountain ranges covered in trees and some capped in snow created a stunning backdrop to every angle of the city, dwarfed only by the lone tower jutting into the sky with baffling height much closer to them -- the inset center of it all. A coupling of rivers carved their way around the city’s east and west like a ribbon draped through the forest, pooling at the bases of multiple mountains and dying off somewhere deep in the woods beyond what was visible.

  
The streets of the city, itself, wound around, through, and seemingly on top of each other in every which way; ruins of various heights, manmade shacks, and huts almost identical to those in the outer villages seemed to almost trap the chaotic pathways into place -- more of an afterthought than a plan, Clarke thought. Though she knew little of the time before the Great Fires, it was known that Polis was something of a phoenix that had risen from the ashes of a civilization that had burned out; her clan used the structures left behind to build a place that worked _with_ the earth on which it was built, not in spite of. 

  
Clarke couldn’t help but imagine Polis, itself, as a pile of snakes emerging from the soil and moving in different but cohesive directions, guided by some unseen force for some unknown purpose. A mass of a creature, alive in its own way, pulsing and evolving with time at the same pace as those contained within its walls -- more permanent than its inhabitants would ever be. 

  
“I know Lexa promised you’d be safe with her in the tower, but in case that changes for any reason, I’ve made arrangements with an old friend who owes me quite the favor. If anything happens, he’ll know what to do.”

  
Clarke could only nod, eyes darting across the cityscape as they descended the hill and made their way back into the canopy. They still had quite a stretch of forest left to cross before they could get to one of the city’s entrances, but Clarke was grateful they’d managed to avoid the infamous east river bridge that added hours to travelers’ journeys. 

  
She didn’t think her heart could withstand such an addition to its anticipation.

  
Once they found the main road, her father easily weaved their horse into the stream of traffic traveling towards Polis. Shouted conversations and the thunderous clomp of horses’ hooves made it difficult for Clarke to focus on anything other than the travelers’ cacophony. Her breathing became harsher as her heart thudded with sensory overload, cowering back into her father’s torso with eyes squeezing shut as they continued on. 

  
With the sounds and smells assailing her from every direction, Clarke retreated within herself, grasping at the images flashing across the backs of her eyelids for anything that would bring her comfort. Mercifully, the memory of trout piled knee-high on the lake’s shore settled clear in her mind’s eye, sending warmth into her fingertips as she recalled Lexa’s wild hair and prideful grin. The way Lexa’s parents had welcomed them and their bounty with quiet gratitude and doting affection evident in every move they made. 

  
(Clarke knew that was where Lexa got it from -- that way her face would transform when she felt something so strongly that it shone from the very core of her like sunlight off a mirror. Clarke couldn’t wait to see it happen again.)

  
Her father slowed their horse to a near stop. Clarke forced an eye open as he steered them into the queue of travelers waiting to clear entry into the capitol. There were two main lines funneling into guard stations situated just to the right of the main gate, and Clarke watched as one party after another passed through without issue. They got to the front far more quickly than expected, and soon they were past the guards and into the fray of Polis.

  
As though someone snapped their fingers somewhere high above, the scene changed before Clarke’s eyes, leaving her mesmerized and open-mouthed where the road in had left her cowering. 

  
They passed merchant stalls overflowing with wild fruits, smoking meats, and pastries of a sweet and savory variety all situated practically on top of each other down the main path. Other stations featured all manner of goods being bartered for trade, much of it conducted in tandem with what was happening with the foodstuffs. Children and adults alike darted out and around stalls without care of being trampled, shouting their pitches at passersby as traffic seemed to flow in all directions. The ruins that cropped up at random intervals along the way were covered with colorful scrawl and images of a different time; Clarke wrenched her neck more than once trying to study each and every one, committing the most vibrant of them to memory. 

  
The bedlam of it all wasn't something she’d be able to forget. 

  
“Seems almost impossible that something so tall could stay standing, doesn’t it?” Clarke followed her father’s gaze forward, jaw nearly unhinging at the sheer size of the tower as they approached. 

  
She’d never seen anything like it -- how had Lexa described it? Like a city that stretched upward instead of outward, taking up space in the sky like villages crowded forests and hillsides. Clarke’s head tipped back into her father’s chest as she attempted to find the tower’s highest point -- the radiant torch that could be seen for miles in every direction -- but they were too close for it to be visible now.

  
“Not too much further here. Where did Lexa tell you to meet her?”

  
The question drew Clarke up short, prickling at the back of her neck as it dawned on her that she had no answer. Lexa had promised Clarke would be with her at all times in Polis for however long she could stay, but all other details were -- well, they hadn’t exactly had time to iron out specifics, had they?

  
In that moment, it also occurred to Clarke that Lexa might not actually have any idea that she was arriving on this particular day -- or that she was even coming _at all_, for that matter. Clarke had just assumed Lexa had known she would be there when she could. 

  
She turned slowly to face her father, shrinking a little in the saddle at his knowing sigh. The sparrow was back, wreaking havoc in her stomach as her father brought their horse to a standstill at the tower paddock near the edge of the central marketplace. He slid off the saddle behind her, moving to allow her dismount as he looked around. 

  
Once on solid ground, Clarke steadied herself beside her father, doing her best not to cling to his back as she thought of all the things she didn’t know. She chanced a look over her shoulder, heart thumping uncomfortably in her chest as she watched what was probably a relatively muted display of chaos unfolding at the tower’s base. The sheer concentration of people moving in all directions was enough to make Clarke lightheaded, and she couldn’t even _attempt_ to fathom what this place looked like in the aftermath of autumn harvest. 

  
“Excuse me, sir,” she heard her father shout, forcing her gaze back to him as he waved a stablehand down, “you wouldn’t happen to know where the nightblood’s quarters are, would you?”

  
The young man, who appeared positively affronted by the question, looked at Clarke’s father as though he’d suddenly grown three heads. Blood rushed to Clarke’s cheeks as her father continued to quiz the man, clearly oblivious to the fact that he was probably violating every unspoken rule the tower’s inhabitants had lived and died by for generations. 

  
Clarke studied the mud permanently caked to the toes of her boots, fighting the urge to cry at how utterly hopeless this situation was turning out to be. She should’ve waited, should’ve sent word back to Lexa after receiving her letter and awaited instruction, should’ve done exactly what she was told --

  
_“Clarke?”_

  
(If it was possible for a person to survive their heart stopping, Clarke would swear for years down the road that that’s what she did then.)

  
Clarke spun around so fast she nearly toppled over, knocking into her father as she craned her neck for the source. The sound of that voice --

  
Standing frozen in the middle of a pathway spilling into the marketplace to Clarke’s left was a girl with wild brown hair tamed into a single braid cascading over her shoulder, taller and leaner than imagination would have allowed. Her cheeks were flushed and shoulders slumped over Trigeda armor that fit a little too loosely -- looking at Clarke as though the sight of her was legitimately impossible. 

  
Clarke didn’t even think about it.

  
She was halfway across the distance between them before her heart could catch up, barreling through the crowd with singular focus. Lexa must’ve rediscovered movement at some point, too, because she was suddenly far closer than Clarke remembered her being and --

  
_“Oof.”_

  
Was the only sound Clarke could muster in response to their body-to-body collision, the force of it sending them tumbling to the hardstones below. Lexa’s momentum was exponentially -- _preposterously_ \-- greater than Clarke’s despite her head start, and the next time Clarke blinked, there was Lexa, framed in sunlight where she looked down at the younger girl sprawled beneath her. Her breaths were coming short, gasping, glistening eyes skittering across Clarke’s face like she needed to commit it to memory for it to be real. 

  
The look of pure awe on Lexa’s face was worth every breath Clarke couldn’t catch. 

  
“You’re _here_,” Lexa whispered, the words a marveling exhalation, “you came.”

  
Clarke could only nod, feeling more than seeing tears drop from Lexa’s eyes to mix with the wetness on her own cheeks. Lexa worked a hand out from beneath Clarke’s shoulder blade to swipe a gentle thumb across their shared emotion, cupping Clarke’s cheek in the aftermath. 

  
A flash of something so _aching_ overtook Lexa’s features then, her lips quivering in a way that drew Clarke’s arms out and around the girl’s shoulders on instinct. 

  
The older girl all but collapsed into the embrace, going limp on top of Clarke as she buried her face into the bend where Clarke’s neck met her shoulder -- Lexa’s spot. Her body shook with silent sobs as Clarke held her tight, pressing her nose into Lexa’s hair as she cried tears of her own. The way Lexa whimpered when Clarke ran a hand over her braid, the fierce pounding of her heart where it pressed to Clarke’s chest, her free hand coming up to cradle Clarke’s head and cushion it from the stone below -- 

  
It made Clarke wonder how long it had been since Lexa was held. 

  
“What’s going on here?”

  
The voice -- a woman’s, flat and hard -- caused Lexa to go rigid, her next breath a hiccup against Clarke’s chest. Her weight was gone in the next instant, leaving the younger girl blinking up at the sky in confusion. Clarke glanced to her right in time to see Lexa rolling to her feet, her movements a little clipped, before the girl’s arm came down in offering to Clarke. 

  
Moments later, the two girls stood together, Lexa a full head taller than Clarke, as they faced the warrior whose face was as unyielding as her voice. She assessed Clarke with a look of pure disdain, mouth settling into a scowl as she did so. She was barely an adult, but her sharp eyes and unmistakable uniform placed her at a rank Clarke knew she had to respect. 

  
Fingers intertwined themselves with Clarke’s, and she glanced sideways to watch as Lexa looked the warrior dead on, eyes alight with determination -- no hint of anything that had come before. 

  
“This is Clarke. She’s my best friend,” Lexa stated, bordering on proclamation. She squeezed Clarke’s hand in hers, taking the deep breath she needed in order to say: “And she’s going to be my guest.”

  
The warrior arched a brow in response, the only indication that she’d even heard Lexa at all. She took a step closer to the girls. Clarke could’ve sworn that it was only the three of them in the marketplace now. 

  
“Oh _is_ she now.” 

  
Lexa’s audible swallow and the squeeze of her grip was enough to widen Clarke’s eyes as the warrior closed the distance between them. The woman -- girl, really -- stopped in front of Clarke, blocking out the sun as she looked down.

  
“And what do you think the _fleimkepas_ will have to say about that? I’m sure Titus would be of particular interest.”

  
Clarke looked at Lexa just in time to catch her flinch. If Lexa’s letters were any indication, Clarke didn’t need to guess why that name elicited such a response. 

  
Lexa controlled it quickly though, swallowing the rest of her reaction as her chin jutted out defensively, stubbornly. Clarke felt the warrior’s eyes leave her for Lexa, and she couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped her when the force of that gaze was lifted. 

  
“The _fleimkepas_ aren’t here. Neither is Titus.” 

  
The statements were bold, succinct, and Clarke fought the urge to gape at her friend. Since when did Lexa have the courage to speak like _that?_

  
“They said we had to continue our training and listen to the warriors who came to watch over us,” Lexa continued matter-of-factly, clearly gaining steam. “They never said we had to do it alone.”

  
“And you took that to mean you could invite all your little friends to the big city to show off?”

  
“Not all of them,” Lexa responded quickly, smiling sweetly up at the glowering warrior. “Just Clarke.”

  
The warrior scoffed, rolling her eyes as she gazed around the marketplace, deliberating. Her mannerisms gave her away in that moment, notching her age down quite a few years as she worked her jaw back and forth. She couldn’t have been more than 17, Clarke decided -- definitely not old enough to have the patience to deal with the consequences of saying no to a stubborn child who was trained in combat.

  
While the warrior picked her poison, Clarke looked over her shoulder to see her father in quite the heated discussion with that same stablehand. They were in each other’s faces, her father clearly unrelenting despite his previous misstep and obvious ignorance. She hoped the warrior didn’t notice her cringe.

  
Lexa squeezed her hand again, drawing Clarke’s attention back to her smiling face. Clarke didn’t think anyone had ever been so elated to see her, eyes brimming with it. In fact, she believed Lexa might actually combust from the feeling if it wasn’t kept in check. 

  
The sparrow was going _mad._

  
_“Fine,”_ the warrior finally snapped, hands pressing into fists on her hips. “She stays with you at all times in the tower, and if I catch you slacking off in any aspect of your training because of her, she’s gone. Understood?” 

  
Lexa nodded so emphatically her brain probably rattled.

  
“She’ll need to be well past gone before the _fleimkepas_ get back anyhow, but I suppose we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Then, beneath her breath in a comment almost certainly meant for her ears alone but spoken a little too loudly: “What have I got to lose besides my rank and file.” 

  
The warrior turned to Clarke again, lifting the girl’s chin between her thumb and pointer as she studied her. Then, bluntly: 

  
“You’re too short for your age. It’s unfortunate.” 

  
With that, she turned on her heels and left the two girls in the dust, making long strides towards the tower as the market-goers seemed to clear a path for her. Clarke could only blink after her. 

  
Arms were thrown around her shoulders in the next moment and Clarke forgot all else. Lexa buried her face in Clarke’s hair, squeezing her to the point of constriction. Clarke returned the embrace with fervor, losing track of her surroundings as the activity of city-dwellers continued all around them.

  
Unaware of the fact that this was the best day of Clarke’s entire life. 

\----

“Who _was_ that?” Clarke whispered, allowing herself to be pulled into the darkness of the tower’s lowest level by an overly-eager nightblood. She knew Lexa would catch on; it was the first chance she’d gotten to ask between all of the hugging and goodbyes that had just occurred. 

  
Her father had finally come to some sort of impasse with the stablehand, greeting Clarke and Lexa at the paddock as though they’d _both_ been away from him for three years. Clarke delighted in the way Lexa’s cheeks heated at being picked up and swung around like a willful infant, stiff and awkward but quietly grateful for the affection. 

  
He’d then handed Clarke her pack -- which Lexa had taken to carry for her almost immediately -- and laid out the same details he’d made her memorize ten times over. He would be just outside the capitol in the next town over, less than an hour’s ride away, and his contact in the tower knew what to do should anything happen. Clarke didn’t know who this person was, but she figured it wasn’t her place to. 

  
He planned to be away for five days at most. (Clarke tried not to notice how Lexa’s face fell when he’d said it). Otherwise, the girls were at the mercy of the towerhands and were to do everything they were told, exactly when they were told. Their staying within short proximity to the tower at all times was a given. 

  
Clarke tried not to act too excited when he finally disappeared from view down the city’s main path. 

  
“That was Anya -- she’s from Wytgeda like me, remember? Titus assigned her as my mentor while the _fleimkepas_ are away. If I’m lucky, I might get to be her Second -- isn’t she _great?” _

  
Lexa was on the verge of babbling as she maneuvered them through a dimly torchlit hallway crowded with people. None of them were milling about -- Clarke could see workers ducking in and out of doorways along the winding hall, some of them carrying goods and others hurrying about like they would break into a sprint if there was room. 

  
Just as Clarke’s skin began to prickle with the first signs of panic, Lexa peeled off and up a hidden staircase that wound along the outer wall on the far side of the tower’s base from where they entered. Clarke would’ve missed it had her hand not been tangled in Lexa’s.

  
By the time they’d made their way around the tower’s circumference seven times, Clarke was nearly gasping for breath, never having experienced anything like this particular set of stairs before. As low as they were in the tower, the primary source of lighting was streams of sunlight filtered through haphazard holes in the outer wall. Metal pieces meant to hold torches were situated at unreliable intervals, but only some of them were filled and even fewer were lit. (Clarke wondered if the Commander cared about such details.)

  
Mercifully, Lexa let her stop on the awning of the tenth floor, pressing Clarke closer to the wall to allow for a woman with a basket full of cloth to pass them. 

  
“We’re almost there, Clarke, don’t worry,” Lexa promised, eyes shining as she tucked a loose strand of blonde behind Clarke’s ear. “The Commander doesn’t let us use the lift, but when he’s not here, the seamstresses allow us to get in on their floor. This way.”

  
Lexa was practically hauling Clarke’s entire weight with her at this point, the younger girl’s pack slung over her shoulder as though she’d forgotten it was there. 

  
They emerged from the stairwell on the next level and made a beeline to the left, barely allowing Clarke a moment to process the openness of this floor compared to those prior. It appeared to be one large room, clusters of brick and foundation on the high ceilings revealing the remains of columns that had been knocked out to allow for tens of working stations to be set up in rows. Fabrics hung from random places in the ceiling like petals of a drooping flower, and nearly every station had a seamstress hunched over it, surrounded by reams of color and tools Clarke couldn’t name. The spacious room was lit by more intentionally-shaped holes in the outside wall that filtered in open air and thin streams of light around thick tapestries that provided shelter from too much exposure to the elements. Many stations had a collection of candles situated to assist where nature failed, and Clarke marveled at the play of shadows and light throughout the room. 

  
“Here!” Lexa pulled them to a stop near two metal doors over a section of the left wall that protruded somewhat. She turned to Clarke with a wide smile stretching her features before pressing something out of view.

  
Clarke startled as an elderly woman with long silver hair suddenly appeared beside Lexa, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder and handing her a piece of folded fabric -- a shirt, maybe.

  
“Try not to tear this one to shreds, dear,” the woman instructed gently, throwing a knowing wink at Lexa. Clarke watched Lexa’s cheeks warm to it, leaving her bashful and sweet.

  
The next thing Clarke knew, she was being pulled into a metal box that was empty save for a single warrior -- who seemed to pretend the girls weren’t there at all -- manning the controls.

  
As the box jerked to life and moved them slowly upwards, Lexa’s arms were back around Clarke whose eyes squeezed shut as her stomach swooped. Instead of dwelling on the new and alarming sensation of climbing into the sky though, Clarke chose to focus on the steady rhythm of Lexa’s heartbeat against her back, the feeling of being nuzzled closer by her favorite person in the world.

  
By the time the box jolted to a stop, Clarke felt as though Lexa was the only thing still grounding her to the earth.

\----

“How come _we_ don’t get to have guests?”

  
“Why do you get a warrior _and_ a best friend all to yourself?”

  
“She’s not one of us -- she can’t stay here.”

  
“Titus is going to --,”

  
_“Enough!”_ Lexa shouted, startling even Clarke with the force of it. 

  
She cowered behind her best friend, shielded from the onslaught of disgruntled nightbloods who’d bristled the moment Lexa had entered their quarters with Clarke in tow. They were crowded near the entrance to a larger room, glaring daggers at Clarke as Lexa faced them all down. From the letters, Clarke knew there were nine of them total including Lexa, but she could only see seven before her now. 

  
“Titus isn’t here,” Lexa stated, punctuating each word with precision, “and there is nothing in our teachings that forbids non-blood visitors who aren’t family --,”

“That doesn’t mean she’s allowed _here_,” a boy cut in, his hair cropped close to his scalp above eyes glittering with anger. “No one but the _fleimkepas_, the handmaidens, and the Commander, _himself_, are supposed to know where our quarters are -- not even the warriors we’re assigned!” 

  
“Goff is right; her presence here is a threat to us,” a girl chimed in evenly, tilting her head to the side as she studied Clarke with far too much calculation. Lexa shifted almost imperceptibly to obscure Clarke from the girl’s view, her stance adjusting into that of a hunter prepared to strike at moment’s notice.

  
“Attack her and you attack me,” Lexa bit out, low and menacing with promise. 

  
Clarke held her breath as a ripple seemed to go through the other nightbloods, some of them sharing looks as Goff continued to glower. Lexa’s threat appeared to have given them pause -- it seemed no one wanted to cross her -- but Clarke still couldn’t predict where this confrontation was headed. Then, suddenly:

  
“Leave her be.”

  
Another girl appeared from behind the nightbloods, walking through to stand in the space between them and Lexa. Her hair was wild, thick and wavy in a manner that bordered on untamed in its curious reddish hue. Her eyes were dark and unreadable in a face that almost demanded to be looked at.

  
“Despite what they might have us believe, the _fleimkepas_ do not own us -- and they are not here to enforce their stupid rules either.” She turned her back to Lexa, facing their peers as she continued. “If Lexa trusts her, then so should we.”

  
After a beat, Clarke watched as some of the nightbloods shrugged and exchanged pacified looks, accepting the sentiment with ease and turning to retreat into their dormitory -- as though they were glad to be done with it. Shouts of laughter and happy raucous sounded not long afterward, reminding Clarke that, despite their mythical reputation and intimidating outfits, the nightbloods were, indeed, kids after all -- just like her.

  
The three that remained didn’t appear as convinced. 

  
“You’ll hardly notice I’m here,” Clarke found herself saying to break the silent standoff, drawing everyone’s attention to her. “I had my eyes closed most of the way up, and I’ll wear a blindfold around the tower if it’ll make you feel better.”

  
It was a lie, but it made the girl who’d calculated Clarke’s continued existence crack something of a smile. Lexa was smiling too, watching Clarke from over her shoulder with a level of fondness that made it hard to believe she’d threatened murderous retribution only moments before.

  
Finally, after tense moments more, Goff -- the ring-leader of the opposing side, apparently -- made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and an exhalation of disgust. 

  
“Whatever. Just keep her away from us.”

  
With that, he turned and stomped off down a couple of stone steps into the larger room, his goonies following close behind. Clarke saw Lexa deflate with relief in front of her. 

  
The last remaining nightblood turned to face Lexa again, the smallest of smiles pulling at the corners of her mouth.

  
“Are we even now?” she asked, soft and good-natured. Clarke moved to stand beside Lexa who intertwined their fingers, fixing the girl in front of her with an easy smile.

  
“For this week maybe -- but probably not for long, Luna.” 

  
Luna’s smile grew at that, sharing in their private joke before nodding to Clarke in acknowledgement and turning on her heels. Clarke looked up at Lexa, surprisingly relieved that her best friend appeared to have at least one ally in this strange place after all. 

  
“I’ll explain later,” Lexa whispered, her expression giving off the impression of swallowed sunlight as she pulled Clarke closer. “Come on -- I have so much to show you.” 

  
Clarke allowed herself to be led into the large dormitory, feeling the warmth of Lexa’s joy settling somewhere deep and permanent in her chest.

\---

“You’re so much better at this than Elys. She always misses pieces, and she’s _never_ gentle.”

  
Lexa’s voice was barely more than a whisper, at peace in her bliss as Clarke worked. She sat on the stone floor beside her bed with her back pressed to Clarke’s shins, hair splayed out on the younger girl’s lap. Clarke smiled to herself as she tied off another tiny braid near the back of Lexa’s head. 

  
A gust of chilled wind blew the heavy tapestry back a little, and Clarke could just pick out the dusting of stars across the night sky beyond as she shivered. Lexa’s bed was nearest the large, open-air window that took up a sizable portion of the wall at the far end of the dormitory -- as though a substantial chunk of the outside wall had caved in and been re-shaped to better serve a window’s purpose. (Clarke didn’t understand how it was possible for them not to get sucked straight out at this high up, but she figured it had something to do with the sheer width of the ledge -- which Lexa, apparently, liked to haul herself up and sit on, much to Clarke’s legitimate terror.)

  
The room, itself, had a vaulting ceiling with steel beams reinforcing its arch, clearly making up for the floor above that had been demolished to account for the space. Dark cloth flags of black and red depicting the Commander’s symbol hung from high above, the only feature of the room that wasn’t sheer necessity. Candles housed in octagonal cages suspended by steel chains hung from the ceiling at various intervals below the flags, providing light from above that filled the room with a soft glow. 

  
There were twenty single beds total -- ten on each wall, staggered -- in the large but narrow room, identical sets of furs on each one with nothing on the walls or anywhere else to distinguish them apart. Still, the nightbloods had dispersed to their allotted beds without word or question when the time came, and Clarke recognized the force of habit when she saw it. 

  
(Given the small number of nightbloods to the supply of beds, most slept with a bed between them and their next-closest peer, but Clarke knew she wouldn’t be sleeping in the empty bed beside Lexa’s during her time here.) 

  
The evening meal had been the best thing Clarke had ever eaten -- meat fresh from the kill and vegetables steamed in spices overflowing from every plate laid out on the long wooden table in the hall adjacent to the dormitory. Never had she seen such a feast outside of the twice-yearly harvests celebrated in every Trigeda village. 

  
Clarke wasn’t alone in her excitement either; the nightbloods were practically _drooling_ over the selection, jumping over each other and ramming shoulders as they wrestled for the first and best pieces of everything. Given that the dining hall was relatively cramped despite its purpose, sound reverberating off of every stone on the wall, Clarke found herself pressed to Lexa’s side as the older girl jostled her peers to fill their plates. 

  
Apparently, these dinners were only possible when the Commander was absent, as he’d restricted the nightbloods’ diet to that of minimal necessity the majority of the time -- otherwise saving the best for himself and his trusted inner circle of advisors. Just as he’d restricted all other aspects of the nightbloods’ lives to that of sheer survival, alone. 

  
The mountainous stacks of food on every child’s plate made a lot more sense in context -- though many of them clearly possessed eyes larger than stomachs. As it were, the cooks clearly liked to spoil the children when given the opportunity, weaving in and out of the hall to bring new plates of food whenever one would empty, doting smiles lighting their features despite themselves. 

  
Lexa, for her part, fixed a small plate for herself, arranged an overflowing array for Clarke, and turned away from her peers, ignoring the racket as she straddled the long bench to focus her full attention on Clarke who sat at the end of it. She watched with obvious fondness as Clarke took her time with every bite, tasting and savoring everything as Lexa’s eyes danced in the torchlight. 

  
(It was a wonder the sparrow even let Clarke eat at all.)

  
Afterward, Lexa ducked back into the dormitory for a few moments before pulling Clarke out of the hall and across the quieting corridor to the bathing room. She showed Clarke how to get the water flowing from a spout in the wall and handed her a clean set of sleeping clothes complete with a toothy grin. Lexa took the wash basin on the other side of a stone partition and began to strip herself of armor as Clarke scrubbed the evidence of travel and toil from her skin. 

  
The sleeping set was unfamiliar to Clarke -- something from the tower, certainly -- and she’d felt her cheeks heat for some reason as she dried off and stepped into what were most assuredly Lexa’s clothes.

  
When they’d returned to the dormitory, the nightbloods were readying for bed, paying Clarke and Lexa little to no mind as they made their way between the rows of beds. While Lexa tucked her armor away into a wooden chest beneath her bed, Clarke tried not to stare as she watched a couple of Lexa’s peers tuck themselves in wearing the same set of clothing they’d been in all day. How could they possibly stand the _smell?_

  
Her disgruntlement had been forgotten as soon as Lexa had presented her with a comb and a shy request, the deepest color of her softened eyes glistening in the candlelight still yet to be extinguished above them. 

  
Clarke didn’t think she’d ever be able to refuse the girl anything when she looked like that.

  
“What about Luna? Can’t she braid?” Clarke questioned softly after a while, doing her best to keep quiet as gentle snoring sounded behind her. Lexa tilted her head back to look up at Clarke, fending off sleep in an otherwise tranquil expression.

  
“Hers are different,” Lexa stated simply, watching Clarke as she fought the droop of her eyelids. “And no one else can do them like you can.” 

  
Clarke smiled down at her, feeling somewhat bashful as she stopped her braiding to run her fingertips across Lexa’s forehead and down her cheek. Lexa’s eyelids fluttered closed at the sensation, the girl nearly melting into Clarke as she sighed contentedly with it. Clarke resumed her braiding, fighting a strange tremor in her hands as she did. 

  
She swept her fingers below Lexa’s hairline at the back, gathering the other girl’s hair the better to work with, when something caused her movements to still. Her heartbeat quickened as she ran her fingers over a thin metal chain around the back of Lexa’s neck, feeling a blush heat her cheeks as she processed what it was. 

  
“Goff broke the original chain during a sparring session a while back. I nearly killed him,” Lexa admitted quietly, taking her hair from Clarke so that the younger girl could get a better look. 

  
The delicate silver chain was far less noticeable than the leather had been, but the wooden bluebird hung steadily just the same, settled into the dip between Lexa’s collarbones.

  
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when it happened,” she continued a little nervously, looking over her shoulder at Clarke with guilt rippling across her expression. “I just -- I went to the metalsmith as soon as it happened, and I --,”

  
“It’s perfect,” Clarke reassured her, bending to place a gentle kiss on Lexa’s cheek where it was turned to her. The older girl blushed in response, ducking her head with shyness as Clarke went back to work.

  
Lexa hummed at the feeling of Clarke’s gentle ministrations, settling back against Clarke’s knees. There was so much Clarke wanted to ask her about -- so much that letters could never properly capture -- but the moment felt too precious to mar with future uncertainties.

  
So, Clarke settled with the present.

  
“Are you happy here, Lexa?” 

  
She’d written the question so many times in so many different ways -- had always gotten the same easy affirmative in response -- but it felt important to ask it again here, now. Able to see the truth revealed in Lexa’s face and the curve of her shoulders. 

  
The older girl remained quiet for a long time, eyes closed and breathing evened out in a manner that Clarke feared might signal sleep. Then, finally, Lexa let out a deep sigh, eyes opening ever so slowly to reveal burning sincerity directed up at her.

  
“I am now.”

  
Clarke bent to press her cheek to the crown of Lexa’s head, nuzzling her a bit as the girl hummed. It was so easy with Lexa -- instinctual, really -- to allow physical touch to speak when words failed, and Clarke felt her entire chest warm as Lexa reached up to intertwine their fingers. They both relished in the other’s closeness, basking in it as sleep closed in on them.

  
Clarke couldn’t remember much after that, but the feeling of being wrapped in Lexa’s arms with her head tucked beneath the older girl’s chin stuck out most in her sensory memory. She was pressed as close to Lexa as was physically possible beneath the soft furs, fingers in her hair coaxing her to the best sleep she’d had in, quite possibly, years.

  
Clarke felt the slow and steady rhythm of that gentle heart even in her dreams.

\---

“You’re throwing your weight too early on the down-swing -- you’ll never break my guard if you keep that up.”

  
“I _might.”_

  
Anya halted her movements abruptly, pivoting her stance at the last second so that Lexa stumbled forward with the sudden loss of opposing force. The younger girl only just managed to keep from losing her balance as Anya watched with a slow shake of her head, disapproval radiating from every inch of her. 

  
Lexa huffed in exasperation, whirling around to fix the warrior with wide eyes. 

  
“What was that for?” she demanded, breathless, voice climbing with emotion. Anya simply blinked at her, a hand coming up to her hip as she planted her wooden staff into the grass so hard it raised dirt. 

  
Clarke gulped in anticipation where she watched from her rocky perch. 

  
They weren’t alone on the training pitch -- the other nightbloods either sparring with each other or designated warriors on rotation across the way -- but Clarke got the impression the two before her were in their own world with each other, entirely immersed in their frightening dance. A chill breeze picked up around the grassy flat, reminding Clarke of just how far they’d had to trek up that winding slope from the tower to get here shortly after sunrise -- almost entirely uphill, too. 

  
She wasn’t looking forward to making the trip back down with a Lexa who was more than likely fixing to get levelled in a number of ways. 

  
“You’re cocky, and you have no idea how to pace yourself. If this were a real fight, I’d be stomping your insides into the soil right about now.” 

  
“That’s not -- you don’t know --,”

  
“I do,” Anya cut her off flatly, returning Lexa’s glare with a hard blankness that only just concealed the extent of her frustration. “You fight like a wildfire loose in the forest -- overly-eager and directionless, with far more power than you have control over. It’s even worse when you’re trying to show off.”

  
Lexa practically reared up at this, looking like she’d just taken a slap to the face as she raised her staff almost instinctively. Anya looked up at the sky as if asking something in it for patience as the fuming nightblood glowered up at her. 

  
When Anya returned the girl’s gaze after a moment though, something in it appeared to give her pause, putting a crease in her forehead as some of her imperviousness fell from her shoulders. 

  
To Clarke’s surprise -- and Lexa’s, visibly -- Anya stepped forward and placed a hand on the younger girl’s shoulder, her voice lowering to something that could’ve been mistaken for an attempt at gentleness to the unfamiliar ear as she spoke:

  
“Fires like that can only burn for so long before they run out of kindling to keep them aflame; then, all that’s left behind is scorched earth and smoke.” The warrior squeezed Lexa’s shoulder, flexing something in her jaw as she considered the child before her with unreadable eyes. “Your passion is your strength, Lexa, and I pray you never lose it. I only ask that you trust me to help you _channel_ it -- that you believe me when I tell you I know what needs to be done in order for you to stay alive. Can you do that for me?”

  
Lexa looked up at Anya for a few moments as the repetitive cracks of wood on wood and shouts from her peers swallowed her silence. Her brows furrowed as she worried her bottom lip, appearing to war with powerful flashes of emotion as she deliberated. 

  
Clarke watched with bated breath.

  
Finally, Lexa nodded once, jaw clenched -- as much of an acquiescence as the warrior was going to get from her right now. Anya remained still for a beat, clearly waiting for a reversal before dipping her chin in acceptance. Then:

  
“Take a break. You’re going to need it for what’s next.”

  
Lexa’s staff was on the ground before the warrior could finish, not _stomping_ indignantly in Clarke’s direction with her eyes trained on the grass in front of her. The moment she looked up and met Clarke’s eyes though, her face brightened and eyes softened immediately -- as if remembering anew that her best friend was here with her.

  
“I saved you some of these, whatever they are.” Clarke held the flattened grain cakes up to Lexa as the girl sat as close as humanly possible to her on the boulder. 

  
Lexa grinned as Clarke made a face, tapping their knees together.

  
“The cooks make them ‘special’ for us when we’re training, which is always. They say they’re all the meats, vegetables, and grains our bodies need combined into one ration.”

  
“Lucky you,” Clarke grimaced, delighting in Lexa’s laughter as the girl rested her head on Clarke’s shoulder.

  
They stayed like that for a while, watching the other nightbloods in their drills as the sun reached its highest point in the sky. Clarke drew shapes on the patched knee of Lexa’s pants as the girl snuggled close to her, occasionally venturing a guess at the more nebulous drawings as Clarke giggled.

  
(Clarke tried not to notice the way Anya watched the two of them from the far side of the pitch, expression unreadable as another warrior spoke closely to her. She couldn’t even fathom the number of rules the warrior was either breaking for them or letting them break. 

  
Clarke hadn’t the faintest idea why they were being broken or how they were getting away with it all; she just knew she would owe Anya for years to come.)

  
“Lexa! Get over here!” Luna called, waving the girl over with a grin. Her hair was loose above a uniform free of armor; Clarke barely had the chance to wonder about it before Lexa was leaning into her and whispering conspiratorially:

  
“Now you’ll see why we keep score.”

  
Lexa was leaping off the rock and bounding over to Luna before Clarke could even take a breath. She watched with widening eyes as the two girls began to circle each other, crouched and weaponless, drawing the hoots and hollers of their peers as they launched at each other. 

  
Unlike Lexa’s session with Anya, there was no calculated restraint or methodical drilling to these movements; this was a race to see who could knock the other to the ground the fastest. Every punch Lexa threw, Luna blocked -- every strike Luna would attempt, Lexa would parry. The two weren’t so much circling each other as they were weaving in and out of each other’s guard, testing for weak points like a river’s current tests the shoreline. 

  
Lexa was all barely-contained energy, giving off the impression of one near bursting through their skin with the banked fire raging beneath it. Luna, on the other hand, moved like water, the fluidity of every step and sequence flowing through her limbs with grace. 

  
Not that Lexa _wasn’t_ graceful -- more that Lexa fought with a heat that Luna knew how to cool. 

  
Finally, _finally,_ the two girls’ dance faltered, Luna’s guard coming up a little too slowly on the reset as Lexa pressed her in a relentless offensive. Lexa shifted her stance at the last second, shifting her weight back only to throw it forward into an upper-cut that drove right into the space below Luna’s sternum. The girl sputtered, the wind knocked out of her as Lexa crouched and spun on her heels, kicking one leg out to swoop Luna’s out from under her. 

  
The nightbloods cheered and jumped around, barely paying attention as Lexa walked up beside Luna’s sprawled form, grinning smugly down at her friend as she placed a boot on the girl’s chest -- a clear sign of victory.

  
Clarke joined in the celebration then, clapping and laughing as Lexa offered a helping hand down to Luna who still appeared to be gasping for breath as she was pulled to her feet. The sound of Clarke’s laughter drew Lexa’s eyes to her, that triumphant smile growing to crinkle near her eyes as she soaked in the praise. 

  
Clarke couldn’t think of anywhere she’d rather be.

\---

The next couple of days followed much the same routine as the first had: rising just before sunrise, rushing through the morning meal, scrambling up to the training pitch, and settling in until the sun made its way back toward the horizon. Everything after training blurred together between the raucous evening meals and quick washings until Clarke was settled on Lexa’s bed, braiding the girl’s hair where it fell over her lap. 

  
That part of the day seemed to draw itself out as much as time would allow, giving the two girls space to soak in the other’s presence as best as they could before settling beneath the bed furs. 

  
Clarke was with Lexa every moment of every day, keeping up her end of the bargain and staying out of the other nightbloods’ way as much as possible. She worked twice as hard to keep pace with the rest of the kids, pushing her shorter legs to carry her just as quickly and trying not to dwell on the blisters her feet were accumulating. 

  
(Lexa noticed Clarke’s limp immediately, pulling her aside to gingerly remove the younger girl’s boots and study the soles of her feet with concern lighting that steady gaze. A salve and bandages miraculously appeared on Lexa’s bedside table that same night, and Clarke could only stare as her friend nursed her wounds with meticulous care before pulling her into a tight hug.)

  
Luna and Seph -- a smaller boy with bright blue eyes and a goofy grin -- welcomed Clarke into their little group with ease and excitement, asking her question after question about her life back home in Chergeda. They listened with genuine interest over every meal, drawing parallels to how they’d grown up in their respective villages across the Trigeda lands. Lexa watched and listened with pride twinkling in her eyes, clearly pleased that her best friend was getting on so well with her favored peers. 

  
One subject they never broached, though, was that of the nightbloods’ families. 

  
The first couple of times Clarke’s parents had come up -- even in mention, alone -- shadows would fall over the faces of those listening, everyone but Lexa finding an immediate excuse to look away from Clarke and busy their hands somehow. Clarke took note of this, making a conscious effort to steer the conversation around any mention of the people who had raised her by blood or mentorship, omitting them from her experiences like the nightbloods had clearly trained themselves to do at some point. 

  
Clarke understood, remembering the way her heart had sunk when Lexa told her she’d be taken to Polis without her parents -- without knowing when she’d see them again, or if she ever would. They’d avoided the subject up till now, talking about anything but Lexa’s circumstance and the rules surrounding it. Clarke knew that was as much as she could do to ease the burden of the ritual that brought the nightbloods to Polis in the first place. 

  
She couldn’t bear giving more thought to it, though -- didn’t know enough to dwell on the particulars.

  
The other nightbloods seemed to appreciate her discretion, the way she kept to Lexa’s side and followed along in the daily routine without complaint or comment for the hows and whys.

  
All except for Goff, that is.

  
The boy glared at her every time she crossed his path, demeanor one of barely-contained violence whenever she would get too close or speak too loudly. The other nightbloods who followed him everywhere he went, Ryn and Janko, weren’t as invested in the performance of hostility, but they still gave Clarke a wide berth. 

  
It clearly infuriated Lexa, the girl openly accosting Goff whenever he would direct a particularly murderous glance Clarke’s way, but Clarke made the girl promise she wouldn’t do anything reckless on Clarke’s behalf. 

  
Lexa had barely agreed, every bit as begrudging as if Clarke had asked her to not to sneeze in a certain way -- as if asking her to give up something that came naturally to her. She kept her word, though, making a point of tucking Clarke behind her and shielding her from pointed glances whenever a volatile presence was near instead of confronting it head-on like her instincts pushed her to. 

  
In return, Clarke made sure to hug Lexa even harder every chance she got -- to give the other girl that much more of what she was too proud to ask for. 

\---

“Anya doesn’t think I’m ready, but I _know_ I am. Malen and Ryn have been on two campaigns already, and I’m still stuck in Polis. It’s not fair.”

  
Clarke was quiet, fingers threading through Lexa’s hair as she worked another braid in. They’d had a similar conversation the night before; Clarke had been at a loss then, too.

  
“She says it’s not up to her how other nightbloods are assigned or what type of training they receive -- she’s just following Titus’s orders,” Lexa continued, clearly unconvinced as she glanced over her shoulder at Clarke. “But I think he’s holding me back, too.”

  
Lexa grimaced then, halfway turned to Clarke as the corner of her mouth twitched, expression growing distant. It rang a bell in Clarke’s mind, drawing forth a passage from one of Lexa’s letters that’d come to her around half a year ago. 

  
“You think he’s punishing you?” Clarke asked, as gently as she could without asserting anything. 

  
Lexa’s eyes darted over to her and back to the wall beside them in a blink, struggling to control her reaction as Clarke watched, waited.

  
“I can’t -- I don’t know,” Lexa spoke after a moment, barely more than a whisper. Clarke leaned closer as the girl continued, wanting to catch every word. 

  
“He doesn’t like when I ask the Commander questions -- he calls me insolent.” Lexa swallowed, containing herself. “I just… I don’t understand _why._ Why declare war on Rock Line when they’ve struggled with drought for years and can’t manage the resources to fight back? Why the constant prodding of Blue Cliff when he knows, he _knows_, that their shared border with Azgeda dictates every decision they make? I know it’s not my place, and I know I shouldn’t speak of it -- I just. Sometimes I can’t _sleep_ at night because my mind won’t quiet with it.” 

  
Clarke met the girl’s gaze, pulse quickening at the fervor burning within those depths -- the conviction that Clarke thought belonged in the eyes of someone far older. Lexa closed her eyes, breathing through her emotions as Clarke studied her, familiar with every curve and line. 

  
“I think Titus questions my loyalty,” Lexa admitted finally, the statement dripping with such poignant shame that it made Clarke’s heart ache. “He questions whether I will uplift the Commander’s symbol with pride if it becomes mine to wear.” 

  
Clarke was already shaking her head before the other girl could finish, cradling the back of Lexa’s head in her hand as she turned it gently toward her. Lexa’s eyes were wide and glossy when they focused on her, lip quivering as she suddenly appeared every bit her age in her sadness.

  
“No way -- I don’t believe that for a second,” Clarke stated firmly, shaking her head for emphasis as Lexa’s eyes roamed over her face, searching for falsehood. “I don’t know much about this place or what goes on here, but I don’t think Anya would be here if Titus really thought that way, would she? Besides,” Clarke continued, pressing on despite Lexa’s flash of doubt, “you should’ve _seen_ the way everyone looked at you when you beat Luna like that the other day. Can any of the other nightbloods say that they’ve done that?”

  
Lexa managed a smile in response, one corner of it cutting through the path of a tear that Clarke brushed away. 

  
They stared at each other for a moment, completely in their own world as the other nightbloods slept behind them, everything else falling away -- as it always did when they were together.

  
“If anything,” Clarke continued after a beat, tucking a loose strand of hair behind the girl’s ear as Lexa caught her wrist and held it there, “I think he might be trying to protect you.”

  
Lexa didn’t _scoff,_ but it was close. She still managed to look fond, though.

  
“Protect me by keeping me caged in? I would hope not. I’d rather die pointlessly than live like the Mountain men.”

  
Clarke couldn’t argue that, shrugging helplessly as Lexa pressed a kiss to her wrist. The older girl propped her elbow on the edge of the bed, resting her head on her fist as she considered Clarke. Her gaze looked faraway now.

  
“Even if I’m not -- even if I don’t _agree_ with the campaigns,” Lexa amended, choosing each word carefully, “my duty is to our people. I have to be where I’m needed --,”

  
Lexa froze abruptly, eyes drawn to something over Clarke’s shoulder with a look that could chill fire. Clarke glanced back, a rush of fear washing over her as she watched Anya striding toward them flanked by a tall, dark, and bearded warrior Clarke didn’t recognize. 

  
Some of the other nightbloods stirred as the warriors strode past, sitting up ramrod straight in their beds and gawking.

  
The closer Anya got, the harder Clarke’s pulse pounded in her ears, feeling the sparrow rouse within her for the first time in days. Lexa was on her feet and around the bed in an instant, putting her body between the warriors and Clarke without second thought.

  
Anya stopped a foot from Lexa, chin raising slightly as she appraised the defensive nightblood before her, expression grim.

  
“The _fleimkepa’s_ caravan has been spotted just outside the city. Their messenger arrived not long ago to announce their arrival.” 

  
Clarke felt more than saw Lexa go rigid, sensing the change in her demeanor like an animal senses a thunderstorm. Anya looked around the frozen nightblood at Clarke, eyes hard as she continued.

  
“That means you’re coming with us -- _now._ And you,” she directed back at Lexa, features drawn, “need to gather your things immediately. The Commander has requested your presence at the front lines.”

  
Clarke’s mouth fell open unbidden, eyes growing wide with dread as she looked between Anya and Lexa, the two sharing unspoken words. The moment pulled at Clarke’s skin, tugging with far too much aggression as tears began to pool in her eyes.

  
“Where will you take her?” The question was devastating, a broken thing barely above a whisper as Lexa voiced it. 

  
She hadn’t moved from her spot in front of Clarke, her posture mimicking that of one bracing for impact. 

  
“We’ll get her out of the tower while you gather what you need.” Anya motioned to the warrior beside her, the man tall and foreboding as he looked at Clarke. 

  
At this, the warrior moved around the bed and knelt in front of Clarke, the action so unexpected that Lexa let out a sound of surprise. Anya grabbed Lexa’s arm, holding the girl in place as Clarke whipped around to face the man, ice surging through her veins.

  
“My name is Gustus,” he spoke, the words a gravelly rumble. “Your father and I grew up together. I owe Jakob more than I have time to say. He and I planned for this -- I will protect you with my life, Clarke.” 

  
The next moment, Gustus found her pack tucked just beneath Lexa’s bed, holding it up to her expectantly. Clarke didn’t think the man was capable of a smile, but his eyes grew lighter as he looked at her, doing his best to gentle his gaze. 

  
Clarke could only nod, taking the bag and sliding off the bed beside him. Gustus straightened to give her space, watching as she gathered the few items she’d stowed in Lexa’s wooden chest. 

  
Clarke couldn’t bear to meet the other pair of eyes on her now.

  
“You will wait for me in the hall with your bag packed,” Clarke heard Anya telling Lexa, the warrior’s voice low and urgent as Clarke hurried. “Bring only what you’re comfortable carrying for a fortnight -- I’ll ready the weapons and saddle the horses. We will leave with the half of the _fleimkepa’s_ contingent that is returning to the Commander once they’ve replenished their supplies. Is that clear?” 

  
Clarke sat back and pulled her boots on, securing her bag into place and looking to Gustus as she finished. The warrior nodded once, catching Clarke by surprise as he gathered her into his arms and hoisted her up with him. 

  
He started walking before she could protest, moving past Lexa and Anya with long and determined strides. 

  
“No -- no, _wait!”_ Lexa cried, the sound of it echoing through the dormitory, ruinous and cracked. 

  
When Gustus didn’t stop, Clarke felt a hard tug at the man’s elbow, forcing him to stop as he grunted in displeasure. They were at the base of the small steps leading out of the dormitory, and Clarke looked over and down in time to see Lexa cut the warrior off, blocking the doorway a couple steps up with her small frame.

  
Lexa’s hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists by her sides, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly with harsh breaths as her entire body appeared to tremor. Her _face --_

  
Clarke pushed at Gustus’s chest, her weak attempt at getting the man to comply faster as he moved to set her on her feet. As soon as her boots touched stone, Clarke was racing up the steps, closing the short distance between them in a breath as she collided with Lexa. 

  
The girl’s arms were around her instantly with a force that bordered on savagery, knocking the wind from Clarke as her hands scrabbled for purchase in the sleep shirt stuck to the younger girl’s back. Fingers then knotted in Clarke’s hair and drew her face into the skin of Lexa’s neck as a sob hiccupped against Clarke’s chest.

  
Clarke could _feel_ Lexa breaking in her arms, going to pieces as quietly as she could while Clarke held her and cried silent tears of her own. Desolation sunk its claws into both girls and tore, leaving them trembling and helpless as they clung to each other.

  
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to have another day or two at least -- enough time to come to terms with what it would mean to say goodbye this time --

  
“We must go, Clarke,” Gustus spoke up far too soon, placing a hand on Clarke’s shoulder as Lexa held on tighter. “And you must let her go, _natblida_. Remember yourself.”

  
The words sent a ripple through Lexa, causing her to still for a moment as she fought to catch her breath against Clarke. 

  
A moment later, she loosened her grip stiffly, leaning back and cupping Clarke’s face in her shaking hands as their eyes met. Clarke sucked in a breath at the look on the other girl’s face, biting down on her lower lip to keep from losing herself to tears as her heart lurched. 

  
Lexa’s eyes were practically _wild_ now, burning with grief as tears continued to spill over. She ran a trembling thumb across Clarke’s cheek, catching some of the rivulets as she steeled herself to speak.

  
“I will write to you as soon as I can,” she vowed, the words a ragged whisper struck through with intensity. “Everything’s going to be alright, I’ll be okay. But you have to -- you have to promise me you’ll be safe. You have to --,” Lexa looked around at Gustus then, her eyes flashing as her jaw worked. 

  
“Promise me,” she commanded him, demeanor instantly transforming into one that would rival even the most hardened of warriors. 

  
Clarke glanced back in time to see the man nod once, eyes lowered in respect as Anya stood beside him and regarded Lexa with an unreadable expression. A hand settled on her cheek again, drawing Clarke back around to meet Lexa’s gaze as the older girl worked to control her emotions. 

  
Lexa fought the quiver in her lip to form the smallest of smiles, momentarily triumphant if only for Clarke’s sake. 

  
Clarke couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, leaning forward to place a kiss on Lexa's cheek as she heard the older girl suck in a pained breath. She leaned near the shell of Lexa’s ear, whispering a fractured prayer:

  
“May we meet again.”

  
Gustus was sweeping her up in the next breath, pushing past Lexa and striding out of the dormitory without pause. Clarke could see Anya beside him, eyes scanning the dimly-lit hallway with her hand clenched around the hilt of the sword at her waist.

  
Clarke adjusted in Gustus’s arms, fighting his grip as she craned her neck around his massive frame. Just as they reached the end of the hall, the stairway dropping off into darkness behind Clarke’s back, she caught sight of a lone figure standing in the hall. 

  
Features shrouded in shadow, Lexa watched as Clarke was taken from her, despondency cooling the air with harsher intensity the more distance was carved between them. 

  
Both of them fighting the feeling that this was the last time they would ever feel warm again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to anyone reading this -- i hope you and your loved ones are safe and well during this hellfire trash chute of a year. 
> 
> i'm v sorry i'm so inconsistent with uploads across my ongoing fics. i have no excuse but life, itself (and less than stellar mental health as of late, but we're gettin through it one day at a time). consider this my attempt at getting back into writing again !!
> 
> some notes:  
\- the dialogue in this fic is understood to be Trigedasleng even though it's not written that way hehe. any other languages spoken will be noted as such.  
\- all the names are going to be written in Gonasleng cause yes.  
\- i didn't intend on this fic being too plot-heavy beyond the fluff, but the characters drive the story/plot so i can't have them just sitting around lol. i'll probably up the rating on the story going forward. as always, any potential trigger warnings will be listed in the notes at the beginning of any chapter in which they're needed. i don't anticipate many of those, though -- y'all know me lol.  
\- yes, clarke gave lexa the Skaikru exit line. yes, i am a sucker.
> 
> if you're still with me on any of my stories, thank you, thank you, thank you. i know i'm not the best or most active/interactive writer on here, so i really do want to express my sincere gratitude for anyone who takes the time to write a comment, leave kudos, or even just give one of my stories a go. your kindness never goes unnoticed. 
> 
> be kind, be well. cheers, loves!


	3. chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: graphic mentions of blood, injury.

_ March 2142 _

  
  


Lexa hadn’t written.

Winter had come and gone, leaving behind the last vestiges of frost to play in the mornings’ shadows. As the prints of predator and prey reappeared on forest paths and flowers bloomed their first, Chergeda, itself, seemed to breathe a sigh of relief -- freed from nature’s whimsical mercy. 

Clarke saw it in the way her parents moved throughout the daytime, tension lessening in their shoulders with the gradual return to their outdoor routines. Her mother resumed her house calls to surrounding villages and her father returned to his workshop in Chergeda’s center, their lives no longer limited to keeping within arm’s reach of a fire. 

And Clarke -- well, Clarke could only wait.

Wait for whispers of the distant battle raging in Blue Cliff territory, the extent of it far graver than any in recent memory -- baffling even the most seasoned of retired warriors upon whose conversations she’d eavesdropped. Wait at her hut’s threshold as she watched yet another parent or child turn their back on sobbing kin to go and fight someone else’s war. Wait at the statue outside of her village for the messenger’s dark hair to peek over the forest’s horizon.

Wait for a promise to be fulfilled, or for her heart to be shattered into irreparable pieces.

  
  


\---

  
  


_ July 2142 _

  
  


“I don’t know why you still do this every month --,”

“Shut up, Wells.”

“-- I mean, you haven’t gotten a package since, when? Last autumn’s harvest?”  
  


“Shut _ up, _ Wells!” Clarke practically shouted, whirling on him where he leaned against the statue’s base. “If you don’t want to be here, then _ go.” _

Wells stood up straight then, placing his hands out in front of him with widening eyes as he watched the rapid rise and fall of Clarke’s shoulders. He knew how she felt, he just -- he never knew when to stop _ talking. _

“Okay, okay -- I’m sorry. I’ll stop,” he promised, nodding his head a little as if to convince himself too. Clarke glared at him, breathing through her anger with far too much difficulty.

Knowing it wasn’t her anger that made breathing so hard.

Wells returned her gaze, watching her struggle to catch her breath -- his expression growing more sympathetic with every failed attempt. Clarke couldn’t stand it.

“I know you hate the heat at this time of day,” she spoke quietly after a while, leaning back against the statue and angling herself away from his prying eyes. “I won’t hold it against you if you go. Really.”

“And do what, exactly?” Wells retorted, settling just far enough away not to brush her shoulder. “I’m either sitting inside and sweating or standing outside and sweating. It sucks either way.”

Clarke sighed, watching a merchant ready his cart for travel on the path to their left. A bead of sweat dripped down from her hairline into her eyelashes, causing her to grimace a little as she blinked it away. Wells was right -- the heat really did suck.

“You could go for a swim in the creek,” she suggested after a bit, glancing over at her friend as he swatted a fly away from his nose rather unsuccessfully. 

It brought the smallest of smiles to her lips, watching him war with nature as he’d done since they were toddlers. 

“Only if you come with me,” Wells replied easily, slanting her a grin before jerking sideways as another insect assaulted him. He grunted in displeasure, pushing himself off the statue and moving to stand in front of Clarke.

She returned his frown with measure, hoping he wouldn’t make her answer that remark -- make her confirm what he already knew. Clarke fixed her gaze on the forest beyond Wells’s shoulder, jaw set to stubbornness as she refused to meet his gaze -- 

Suddenly, she caught sight of something coming into view on the furthest point of the path from them -- some_one. _

She passed Wells at a dead sprint before he could even call her name, forcing her feet to carry her as fast as she always needed them to at this point in the month. 

The man saw her coming, of course -- knew her by name and probably so much more after their tens of encounters. The couriers used to change out every few months, but Clarke had seen the same man for the past several -- had memorized his face at this point, the markings of age just beginning to make themselves known on his features. 

By the time she nearly barreled into him, the messenger had already stopped on the path, fixing her with a look that never failed to hit her square in the chest upon registering. It stole her breath away almost instantly, sending an ache into the place beside her sternum that she could feel in her back and shoulders. 

She didn’t even want to ask; she forced her eyes to the ground instead, studying the way the dirt created a contrast to the man’s light boots where he stood in front of her.

“Well? Anything?” Wells asked between breaths, coming up behind Clarke and stopping just short of her flank. She couldn’t speak, didn’t turn around. 

The messenger didn’t say anything either, too familiar with the delicacy of this routine to risk diverging from it. He simply reached out his hand, waiting.

Clarke closed her eyes for a moment, taking deep, steadying breaths as the sounds of the forest grew deafening around her. Her next movements were mechanical, practiced, removing the letters from where they’d been tucked beneath the shirt over her waistband. 

She held them out in front of her, opening her eyes to meet the messenger’s knowing look as he took the parcel from her with a gentleness that made her want to vomit and cry. He looked away from her to rifle through his satchel and place the letters safely inside. Then, meeting her gaze once more, the messenger’s lips tightened into the ghost of a smile, too taut to provide comfort.

Without a word, the man was brushing past the two kids and heading towards Chergeda, an unfinished delivery standing between him and his next destination. Clarke turned to watch him go, feeling a heaviness settling into her limbs that made her want to sink into the earth beneath her feet.

Wells was in front of her again, placing his hands on her shoulders as an unbidden tear escaped down her cheek. He swiped it away with the pad of his thumb, eyes alight with more of that sickening concern as he did so. 

“I’m sure she’s alright,” Wells spoke after a while, tone as genial as he dared to be in that moment. “It’s probably hard to find a moment to write, you know? Plus, where would she even find a messenger to send all the way from Blue Cliff? All couriers from other clans have to go through the Polis checkpoint too, which can’t make it any easier.”

He had a point or two -- none that Clarke hadn’t already heard before, but still. It didn’t make the passing months any less agonizing.

“Besides, we would’ve heard by now if something had happened to her. I mean, they wouldn’t let a nightblood die outside of the Conclave without making a big deal of it --,”

“Please,” Clarke whispered, eyes squeezing shut as his words tore through her so violently she swayed on her feet. _ “Don’t.” _

Wells was silent, immediately realizing his mistake as he swallowed rather noisily. Clarke knew he hadn’t meant it -- he never did, he just. Didn’t know when to let something go unspoken.

Couldn’t have known that he’d nicked a wound that had been bleeding since last November. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words low and sincere. Clarke nodded after a breath, still unable to open her eyes as she fought to control the maelstrom his words had unleashed beneath her skin.

“Can I hug you?” The words were small, filled with so much of that familiar, aching hesitancy that Clarke could feel it somewhere deep beneath her ribcage. 

She could only nod again, hiccupping a shaky exhale as Wells’s arms wrapped around her back. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder, wishing not for the first time for softer skin to press her nose against -- for a different set of arms to pull her closer.

They held each other for far longer than most would dare at this time of year, allowing the sun to bake the shirts onto their backs as their hands struggled for purchase on the slickening material. Clarke knew Wells had to be positively miserable in the embrace, already overheated from their time in the shade, but she took what he was offering -- grateful she had him to hold her up.

When the heat became too much to bear, Clarke allowed herself to be coaxed back toward the village, tempted by mentions of the creek and the growing smile on Wells’s face. 

She knew it was what she needed -- what she always needed when this day of the month came to its increasingly inevitable conclusion. Knowing it would leave her absolutely _ devastated _ in its wake.

Knowing she’d be back again next month all the same. 

  
  


\---

  
  


_ October 2142 _

  
  


Today was Clarke’s birthday.

She should have been excited; it used to be her favorite day of the year. 

Today, though -- today was a reminder that she had neither seen nor heard from Lexa in almost a year. 

The Commander’s campaign had ended a couple months prior -- well before the turn of season -- and warriors both alive and dead had returned to their villages a few weeks back. There was talk of a stalemate, the inability of the Commander to reach any sort of victory through either violent or diplomatic means. From the talk amongst the villagers, faith in him had been shaken across their nation, the blood of those lost and maimed staining his hands with an irreparable permanence. 

It had caused a fog of uncertainty to fall across their lands in the aftermath, no less acidic than that of the yellow death unleashed by the Mountain.

Clarke could do little more than look on as the unease spread from person to person, almost viral in its consumption of her parents, neighbors, and kin. To say that she was untouched by it would be a lie; but, Clarke’s uncertainty over a political situation she was still too young to fully comprehend paled in comparison to the very real ache in her chest that seemed to grow in its acuteness by the day. The reality of the silence that consumed her days.

(Clarke had never missed a week -- would never, she believed. Even if her words were lost to ashes or buried six feet below to merge with soil and bone. Even then, she would still make them known somehow, put them out into the world in the hopes that they would carry with the wind and fall upon the ears of the one meant to hear them.)

That reality made this day hurt in a more physical way than Clarke was used to, the soreness reaching far too deep for her to understand or articulate. 

An ache that made getting out of bed a near impossibility. 

But, Clarke was 11 now, the age children were when they declared their intended apprenticeship in Chergeda. Which meant she had a reason to make something out of this day despite how vehemently her body fought against it.

Her father had been preparing her to begin a study at his workshop, drilling her on the tools and techniques that made Trigeda carpenters the best in all the clans. And Clarke was on the right track, her craftsmanship well above that of those her age and even older -- her grasp of the artistry of this particular trade beyond what could be taught in any workshop. Clarke was well on her way to taking over for her father when the time came; it was what the village had come to expect from their family, to maintain the tradition of contributing to the community what they were best at.

Clarke knew what was expected, knew what awaited her at the workshop in the center of town should she make her way over there today. 

Except, the moment Clarke put her bare feet on the cold stone of their hut’s floor, she knew she needed something more. Needed something other than the hours spent in silence absorbing the way her father tended to his carvings.

Clarke needed a distraction.

Which is why she got dressed and followed her mother out into the morning air instead.

It was a routine visit, her mother had said, the response to an urgent call for help with an injury -- a frequent scenario for all the healers of the clans these days. But, from what her mother had heard, it apparently required more supplies than she had the ability to carry on her own. So, Clarke had volunteered to help, feeling that poignant need to distract herself weighing every breath and step. 

They’d made their way to the opposite end of the village, Clarke carrying the smaller of the two medicinal supply bags they were bringing with them. The hut they arrived at was somewhat isolated from the rest of the village, situated at the point just before forest overtook civilization. Clarke couldn’t help but notice how much more run-down it looked as well.

Suddenly, a girl’s screams pierced the chill morning air, punctuated by the opening of the hut’s front door. A woman stood on the threshold looking quite near death herself, tunic spattered with blood beneath a face devoid of color in its grimness. 

Clarke’s mother approached her, placing a consoling hand on the woman’s sunken shoulder.

“What happened?” 

“She went for a swim,” the woman replied, each word clipped with struggle as the color receded even further from her face. “Her brother said she -- it came out of nowhere and she -- and her _ leg _ \--,”

Clarke’s mother was nodding before the woman could finish, a calmness that Clarke had never seen before washing over her features and radiating from every inch of her. She said something to the woman who nodded and retreated into the hut. Then, she turned back to Clarke, expression filled with that same practiced neutrality.

“There’s going to be blood -- lots of it,” Clarke’s mother stated, her voice firm. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

Clarke swallowed, nodding before her brain could process it. 

Her mother scanned her face for a few moments, searching, before nodding once to herself. She motioned for Clarke to follow her, speaking just loudly enough for her daughter to hear over the girl’s wailing.

“I have her mother boiling water for the needles, but I’ll need to clean the wound before we can do anything else.” The two of them walked into the hut, Clarke following closely behind as her mother headed straight for the bed occupying the far corner. “I’ve seen this kind of wound before, and if it’s anything like the others, I may need you to make a run to Tondisi.”

Clarke paused, brows pinching in confusion, before her eyes caught sight of the girl sprawled atop the bed furs -- _ covered _ in blood. The furs were soaked with the stuff too, the air putrid with that unmistakably metallic smell. 

Clarke was sure it should’ve made her sick -- should’ve made her want to run back to her family’s hut and hide beneath her own bed furs until the monster went away. Instead, as her mother moved to kneel beside the bed and unwrap the cloth bandage haphazardly covering the girl’s thigh, Clarke found herself moving closer -- wanting to get a better look.

“You’ll be able to save her, right?”

The voice was so close to her, so unfamiliar, that Clarke nearly jumped out of her skin. She whirled around, having to look up to meet the eyes of the boy now occupying her personal space.

He was a few years older than her, his eyes dark and shrouded in the kind of tragedy that revealed its frenzy when the light caught certain angles. Clarke might’ve been afraid had she not seen the tremor playing at the corner of his mouth, the way the set of his features prevented any color from filling them.

“Leave her be, Bellamy,” the woman ordered, appearing beside him with a steaming pot filled with water. “She’s here to help. Go for a walk if this is too much for you.”

“No,” the boy bit out, gruff and final as he continued to glare at Clarke. He chanced a look in the bed’s direction, blanching at what he saw.

Clarke followed his gaze, eyes widening at the sight of the wound now uncovered on the girl’s thigh -- far too large and angry-looking for how small and frail the girl looked in comparison. Bleeding far too much, far too quickly.

“Clarke -- my bag, please,” her mother commanded, toneless and even. Clarke was at her side in an instant, peeling the satchel from her shoulder and handing it over as her mother threw the bed furs to the floor. 

The girl was barely whimpering now, face covered in sweat as she appeared to fight for consciousness.

“I need to clean it -- do you think you can hold her arms for me, Clarke?” 

“I’ll do it,” Bellamy stated, appearing by the bed in an instant. Clarke’s mother simply nodded, motioning for the boy to move into place as she handed Clarke a wet cloth reeking of alcohol. 

“Hold her wrists above her head -- we don’t need her scratching herself or any of us when the pain starts.”

_ “Starts?” _ Bellamy retorted, choked and disbelieving even as he did what he was told. Clarke’s mother ignored it, pulling a sterile cloth from her bag and easing it beneath the girl’s thigh just above the wound.

“Clarke, get on the other side of her and start cleaning around the wound. Don’t get any open skin until I’m done.”

Clarke was climbing onto the bed before her mother could finish, careful to avoid jostling the girl too much as she knelt beside her. She tried to ignore the way the knees of her pants soaked through as she settled into position. 

The moment Clarke put cloth to skin, the girl’s entire body gave a jerk, twitching against her brother’s hold as Clarke’s mother strained to keep her soon-to-be-tourniquet steady. Clarke pressed her left hand onto the girl’s uninjured calf, grimacing as it slipped through the slickness of blood. 

“Is it -- will you be able to -- will she be alright, Abbi?” the other woman asked, struggling through audible tightness in her throat where she stood a few steps behind Clarke’s mother -- unable to bring herself any closer. 

Abbi tied off the tourniquet, mouth pressing into a thin line where only Clarke could see. 

“We won’t know until it’s clean -- Clarke, keep your hold on her and give me that.” Abbi took the bloody cloth from her, dousing it with another swig of alcohol as Clarke moved to hold both of the girl’s legs. 

(She’d neglected to tuck in her tunic as she normally did that morning; the fabric caught in a small pool of blood collecting beside the girl’s injured thigh the moment Clarke adjusted her position. She really could’ve kicked herself for being so careless.)

Suddenly, the girl let out a strangled scream, the sound ripping through the hut with tangible force as Clarke watched her mother press the cloth into the worst of the gnarly wound. She thrashed beneath Clarke’s hold, unsteadying her brother who grunted to keep himself from falling sideways.

“It’s okay, Octavia, I’m here -- I’ve got you,” Bellamy cooed after a beat, forcing gentleness into his tone with some success as Clarke struggled to keep his sister from kneeing her in the head. “You’re gonna be just fine, O.”

Abbi was steady as ever, though, persistent in her ministrations as she kept her eyes trained on her patient’s wound. Clarke caught onto that focus immediately, studying it closely even as she had to force her entire body weight onto Octavia’s tiny legs to keep her still. The girl was at least two years Clarke's junior, but her strength more than made up for it as she bucked against the older girl's hold. 

It was truly amazing the lengths a body would go to in the fight against agony.

“Your daughter is very lucky, Aurora; there doesn’t appear to be the kind of damage here that would prevent her from keeping her leg.” The words were as close to containing emotion as Abbi would allow in the moment, and Clarke watched Bellamy and his mother deflate with relief in her periphery.

“Still, she’s lost a lot of blood in a very short period of time. She’ll need replacement, and we have to be quick about it if we’re to close the wound in time to prevent infection from setting in.”

Abbi was rifling through her bag then, uncaring of the state of her hands as she did so. 

The wound was substantially cleaner now, blood flow having slowed with the tightness of the tourniquet. Clarke memorized the fit and tie of it, tucking the knowledge into a place in her mind she hadn’t realized she’d created until it was newly-occupied.

Suddenly, uncharacteristically, Abbi swore, snapping Clarke’s eyes over to her as she stilled for a moment with a hard set to her jaw. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Bellamy demanded, looking ready to launch himself into something at a moment’s notice. Clarke fought the urge to glare at him.

“Clarke,” her mother met her gaze then, eyes hard and determined, “do you remember what I said about Tondisi?”

  
  


\---

  
  


Clarke was running, pushing her legs harder than ever before in her life.

The forest blurred past as she tore through it, needing to cover ground that would normally take over an hour to cross in half that. She knew the path well enough -- had made the journey from her village to Tondisi enough times with her father to go it alone. 

That didn’t make the task before her any easier though.

Abbi had made her daughter recite the instructions back to her until it became a chant running through Clarke’s mind -- _ go to Tondisi, find their healer’s tent, ask for Nyko, get his field transfusion kit. _

Time was her greatest enemy now, fighting to be faster than Octavia’s blood loss and the creep of infection as she dashed through the woods. 

Every so often, Clarke would pass a random trailwalker in transit, their reactions a grim reminder of what she looked like -- what they probably assumed. After all, she knew what they were seeing -- a lone child, unremarkably dressed and weaponless, hurtling through the woods _ soaked _ in fresh blood. It stood to reason that they would try and stop her, call out to her even as she left them in the dust if only to quell their own alarm.

Regardless, she didn’t stop -- would only pause for breath when her lungs threatened to collapse inward and her vision started to blur.

By the time she reached the tall outer wall of Tondisi’s south side, Clarke nearly cried out in relief, barely slowing her pace as she threw herself into an old side gate and stumbled onto one of the adjacent paths. 

She skidded to a stop and looked around as her breaths came in gasps, immediately attracting tens of eyes as a crowd of milling villagers spotted her. Tondisi’s central market was a good distance away from here down another main route, so Clarke was surprised to find this many people lingering near the outskirts. She couldn’t dwell on it though, ignoring the reaching hands and concerned questions of those closest to her as she darted around them and cleared enough space to resume running.

_ Find their healer’s tent. _

She only got turned around once, hitting a dead-end in her frenzy and having to backpedal out of another small gathering of alarmed onlookers (also unusually clustered in a non-central location) before reaching her destination. 

When she got there, Clarke burst through the tent flaps, adrenaline pounding through every inch of her as her eyes adjusted to candlelight.

“What on _ earth --?” _

A man’s voice sounded from the far corner of the tent, drawing Clarke forward as a bearded giant with a tattoo spanning his side profile strode out from around some sort of workbench to her. His eyes widened in spite of himself as they took her in, his hands extended in front of him as though she were half-wild and in need of taming. 

“Here -- onto the cot, young one,” he instructed calmly, finding his bedside manner as he wrapped a gentle guiding hand above her elbow. “Are you able to tell me what happened --?”

“Not my blood,” Clarke gasped, shaking her head and resisting his pull as she struggled to breathe. “Not mine -- a girl, she’s hurt. Need -- need Nyko.”

He stilled, looking down at her in confusion with a hand still clasped loosely around her arm. She shook herself free of it, stepping back and returning his gaze with as much confidence as she could muster.

“Are you him?” The man nodded once, head quirking to the side as he studied Clarke more closely now. 

“What is the meaning of this?”

“My mother, Abbi of Chergeda -- she sent me.” At the name, Nyko softened immediately, much of the tension leaving his frame as he finally caught on. “She sent me for your _ field transfusion kit,” _ Clarke spoke each word precisely, careful not to mess up, “for a girl who swam in the east river. A piece of hers is missing -- she said you’d know which one.”

Nyko was nodding before Clarke could finish, striding over to his workbench as he knelt to pull a hidden drawer open. A few moments later, he straightened back up, a cloth bag hanging from his grasp as he walked back to Clarke. 

“Take the whole thing. Let your mother know I’ll be by to fetch it and bring her a replacement in three days’ time --,”

Nyko froze, bag extended mid-air between them as Clarke picked up on the sudden commotion outside as well. The next moment, Clarke felt the bag being settled securely across her torso, her eyes following Nyko’s every shift as he moved past her to the tent’s entrance.

“Stay here.”

Clarke shielded her eyes as the healer stepped out into the mid-morning sunlight and let the tent flap fall closed behind him. Voices greeted him immediately, and Clarke walked to the entrance to hear more clearly.

“-- saw an injured girl running through the village -- is everything alright?” A woman’s voice was asking, unfamiliar and commanding -- a glimmer of something sharper cutting through.

Clarke was walking into the daylight before she could stop herself, feeling the need to diffuse whatever was about to happen as she stepped out from behind Nyko. Though her voice was still a little too rough to carry over the village’s din, she spoke:

“I’m fine, my mother just sent me here to --,”

A gasp stopped her dead in her tracks, freezing Clarke in place as she finally registered who was in front of her.

The woman who’d spoken was Indra, the leader of Tondisi and an old friend of her father’s. At her flank stood a couple of Trigeda warriors Clarke didn’t recognize, clearly here to defend their leader from whatever strange incursion this was. 

But that wasn’t what had Clarke’s blood turning frigid in her veins, her vision tunneling as she blinked through black spots. 

Standing to Indra’s right, directly in front of Clarke, was Anya, face streaked with war paint above full uniform and weapons. And beside her was --

_ “Lexa.” _

The girl was dressed similarly to Anya, face painted in streaking black as her hand clasped in a white-knuckled fist around the hilt of a sword at her waist. Her face was completely drained of color, mouth agape and eyes blown wide with pure, unadulterated horror as they darted over every inch of Clarke.

Lexa stumbled forward a step, unbalanced, her face looking as though someone had buried a knife in her back as she stared at Clarke. Anya threw an arm out, blocking Lexa’s advance as she looked between Clarke and Nyko with eyes widening in alarm and something else.

Clarke felt like she was going to be sick.

“Nothing to be concerned about, General,” Nyko spoke up, cutting through the sudden tension as he placed a steadying hand on Clarke’s shoulder. (Could he sense she was about to faint?) “Her mother, Abbi, sent her for medical supplies. She’ll be leaving --,”

“And the _ blood?” _ Anya cut him off roughly, working her jaw as her arm remained in front of Lexa. 

The girl hadn’t looked away from Clarke, eyes skittering over every inch of her and back to her face as they pooled with tears. 

“Not mine,” Clarke answered, trying not to flinch at how weak she sounded. She needed them to understand -- would do _ anything _ to wipe that look of anguish off of Lexa’s face. “A girl in my village, Octavia, she -- she needs -- she’s hurt.”

Clarke knew she was stammering, knew she sounded on the verge of bursting into tears, but she couldn’t help it. Not with Lexa looking at her like _ that. _

Like she was watching a brutal enactment of her worst nightmare unfold before her eyes. 

“Yes, she’s perfectly alright,” Nyko confirmed stiffly, squeezing Clarke’s shoulder almost imperceptibly. “I appreciate your concern, but this was nothing to step away from the Commander for. She really will be going now.”

The _ Commander? _ He was in Tondisi? For _ what? _

Indra nodded in acquiescence even as she eyed Clarke with something hinting of concern. Anya appeared to have recovered her hardened exterior for the most part, her grip on the nightblood beside her having shifted to that of an ironclad grasp on the girl’s shoulder. 

Lexa, though -- Lexa still looked close to turmoil, seemingly unable to get a grip on herself as her eyes continued to flit over Clarke with silent tears streaking through her paint. As though she couldn’t reconcile what she was seeing with what she’d heard. 

“Go now, daughter of Abbi,” Nyko commanded her, forcing her gaze to him as he spoke, expression unreadable. “You are needed in your village.”

Clarke closed her eyes for a moment, feeling time constrict and release in pulses around her as she struggled to breathe. Her fingertips were tingling, the rushing in her ears threatening her equilibrium as she willed herself not to succumb to the churning in her stomach -- that dreaded sparrow returned. 

She didn’t think she could do this, didn’t know how she was supposed to face a Lexa who looked at her like that. Didn’t know if she could stand to turn away, either.

(It was Clarke’s _ birthday_, for crying out loud, and Lexa was _ here_. Lexa was here, and Clarke had never missed a week. Lexa was here, and Clarke didn’t know why.)

Clarke’s eyes snapped open, channeling all of her remaining willpower into looking up at Nyko and _ not _ in front of her, nodding once in thanks. Conjuring all of her strength to turn on her heels without a second glance and take off in the direction she came, feeling all eyes on her.

Using every last ounce of her control on not turning back, not allowing herself to meet the one pair of eyes searing into her with tangible force -- 

As she turned the corner to head back down the adjacent pathway, Clarke caught sight of something in her periphery; she choked back a sob as she pushed herself faster -- away from it. 

Away from Lexa, whose arm had been snagged like an animal in a snare by Anya, who appeared to be the only thing keeping the nightblood from taking off after Clarke. 

Clarke had never felt so cold.

  
  


\---

  
  


“I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you. You have no idea what this means to us --,”

“Really, Aurora, I’m just doing my job. Your thanks is enough.”

Clarke sagged against a tree a few feet away from the hut, hands braced on her knees as her mother struggled to bid the other woman farewell. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so exhausted, didn’t know if she ever _ had _ been.

Octavia had responded well to the transfusion from Abbi, who happened to be a universal donor and had hooked herself to the tube without hesitation. The color had gradually returned to Octavia’s face as the blood circulated into her system, and Bellamy was able to distract his sister with hydrating fluids as Abbi stitched the wound. 

Clarke had been able to do little more than hold the bandages for her mother when needed, but it was more than enough that she had made it back in time for that to be her only job.

She hadn’t allowed herself a moment to think since she’d left Tondisi, focusing instead on the rhythm of her breathing or the placement of her footing as she ran. Staring intently at her mother’s sewing needle as the woman worked. Doing everything but thinking about --

“You look like you could use a drink,” Bellamy observed, startling Clarke a bit as he appeared in front of her. 

He held a canteen out to her, lips pressed into a tight line that could’ve been a smile had he not looked so miserable. Clarke took it from him, trying not to stare at the tremble in his hand as she gulped the liquid down.

She instantly coughed it back up, keeling over to sputter and spit the bitterness from her mouth with a gasp. Clarke looked up at him after a moment, too exhausted to put anything other than a pointed _ really? _ into her expression. Bellamy grimaced, looking more awkward than apologetic.

“Sorry, I, uh --,” he looked down at the ground, shuffling his feet as he ran a shaky hand through his dark hair, “I like to drink spirits after a hard day. It usually helps.”

“Yeah, well, I’m 11, so.”

“Right,” he nodded, still messing with his hair as he looked everywhere but at Clarke. She wished he would just go back inside. 

Her day had been hard enough, and it was barely passed noon.

“I just -- thank you. For saving my sister.” Bellamy’s voice was a cracked shell of a whisper, revealing everything bleeding underneath. “I owe you one.”

Clarke could only nod, feeling exhaustion in every part of her body -- what was left behind from the longest adrenaline rush of her life. Even her _ eyes _ hurt.

Bellamy seemed to catch on finally, nodding to himself as he turned away from her, hesitating for only a moment before striding back to his sister’s sickbed. 

Clarke blinked and she must have lost some time, because her mother was there suddenly, scooping her daughter into her arms like she used to do when Clarke was much smaller. Her mother’s grip was strong, comforting, settling Clarke against her as she walked back toward the center of their village.

“You did so well today, sweetheart,” Abbi murmured, the words a gentle breath against Clarke’s hair. “I’m _ so _ proud of you.”

It was enough to signal the freedom for Clarke to sleep as her mother walked, feeling everything merge into nothing as she drifted off into that merciful darkness.

  
  


\---

  
  


“Clarke, honey, wake up.” 

Her mother’s gentle voice roused her from a deep and dreamless sleep, grogginess casting heavy fog in Clarke’s mind as she struggled to clear it. 

“You have a visitor.”

Clarke blinked up at her mother in confusion, allowing herself to be pulled into a sitting position as her mother ran a fixing hand through her hair. The last of evening light streamed in from the small window beside Clarke’s bed, and she felt a pang of disappointment over having slept through most of her birthday. 

Not that it had been going terribly well to begin with.

Abbi helped Clarke to her feet, reaching around her to pull a hairbrush off the bedside table. She worked through her daughter’s hair, features calm and even as she began the motions of a loose braid. Clarke looked down at her clean set of clothes, her skin and nails scoured clean of blood, and felt a wave of warmth wash over her as Abbi continued to dote on her. 

It was always comforting to be reminded that her mother looked out for her even when Clarke didn’t know it. 

“Who’s here?” she asked quietly, looking around their hut for clues. Abbi tied the braid off, giving Clarke a soft smile beneath distant eyes. 

Before Clarke could ask her about it, Abbi was pulling her toward the door, giving her a playful shove near the threshold as she quirked a brow.

“Go see for yourself.”

Clarke did, pulling the door open and stepping out into the chill evening air as her eyes adjusted, and --

_ “Clarke!” _

\-- was the only warning she got before a body slammed into hers, the momentum enough to send her stumbling backward as arms wrapped her up tightly. 

She would’ve fallen flat on her back had the other person not kept them both up, half-gloved fingers tangling in her hair as she struggled to process who --

“Keep that up and you’ll strangle her, Lexa,” Anya’s voice called from several yards away, nonchalant as ever where she leaned against the wide trunk of a tree. Her face was still painted, warrior’s uniform fitted to her frame as she fiddled with the hilt of a knife on her waistband. 

Clarke went rigid, heart hammering behind her eyes as she wrenched back -- too locked in Lexa’s arms to go anywhere, but putting just enough space between them to see for herself.

Sure enough, staring back at her through glossy pools of verdant hue was Lexa, face streaked with that same black paint above her warrior’s garb. Her expression was so painfully tender, so _ relieved _that it stole every breath Clarke would’ve taken. 

She was afraid her heart might not make it.

“Clarke, you’re -- you’re okay. You --,” Lexa stammered, eyes darting over Clarke’s face and to anywhere visible as she brought trembling hands around to cup the younger girl’s face. “You’re _ okay.” _

Clarke could only nod, her own hands finally responding as she brought them up, grazing her thumb over the paint on Lexa’s cheeks as the girl’s eyelids fluttered with the touch. 

“And you’re _ here,” _ Clarke breathed, shaking her head in disbelief as Lexa ran a hand over her braid, the other still cupping the younger girl’s cheek. Clarke could feel her hands shaking as she pressed them onto Lexa’s shoulders, snaking them down to clasp around the girl’s waist.

She hadn’t been able to take a full breath since she’d stepped outside.

Clarke had so many questions, so many emotions swirling in her chest, but all she could manage was, _ “How?” _

Lexa didn’t answer, instead pulling Clarke against her with something of a whimper as she buried her face in the spot she seemed to crave whenever the younger girl was near. Clarke settled into the embrace on instinct, one hand coming up to cradle Lexa’s head while the other remained a reassuring pressure against the girl’s lower back.

“Can I get you two anything to drink? Something to eat?” Abbi asked from behind Clarke as the girls continued in their own world. 

“Thank you, but no,” Anya answered, more polite than Clarke had ever heard her. “We can’t stay long, but Lexa insisted we make the journey anyway.”

There was that familiar undertone whenever she begrudged the nightblood something, but Lexa didn’t seem to notice, her eyelashes tickling the skin of Clarke’s neck as she took deep, steadying breaths. Clarke was still reeling, feeling almost out-of-body as she held Lexa.

The sparrow was on a rampage through every inch of her. 

Something sparked in Clarke then, igniting somewhere deep in her chest and rushing into her head as her cheeks flushed. Clarke didn’t know what it was, but it had her stepping back and moving to take Lexa’s hand as the girl’s eyes widened -- possibly at the change in Clarke’s expression. 

Clarke didn’t meet her gaze, pulling Lexa along behind her. The older girl went along easily, only adjusting to intertwine their fingers and throw a look behind her at Anya, who stayed put. Lexa kept pace as Clarke walked them around to the back of the hut and further into the woods where they wouldn’t be watched or overheard.

“Clarke?”

“Not yet,” Clarke told her, not looking back as she led them deeper into the forest beneath a darkening sky.

A few moments later, Clarke stopped dead in her tracks, forcing Lexa to side-step to avoid collision. Clarke didn’t look at her, moving a few steps further into the brush as she nearly gasped for breath -- far too winded for a walk so short. 

She placed her hands on her hips as she attempted to settle down, back turned to Lexa who was silent behind her.

As the last of daylight painted the tops of the trees, Clarke realized what it was that had her so worked up -- had her heart thundering in her ears and her hands trembling as spots crowded her vision.

She was _ angry. _

“Clarke --?”

“Where have you _ been?” _

It was a breathless thing, brittle and hard at the same time. Clarke wished she could see Lexa’s face, make certain her question was truly understood, but nothing in her body would allow her to turn.

Silence grew between them like a palpable weight, pressing down on their shoulders as the light receded. Just when Clarke feared she’d been left alone to her thoughts, Lexa spoke:

“Titus found out about your time in Polis.”

Clarke whirled around, panic cutting through everything else as she met Lexa’s gaze. The girl was closer than Clarke expected, standing only a few steps away as she absorbed Clarke’s expression.

“He’s not -- he hasn’t taken any of your letters, I promise,” Lexa assured, easing a concern Clarke hadn’t yet thought of as their gazes locked. “Anya made a deal with one of the couriers and he -- I have them all. I won’t let anything happen to them.”

Lexa’s eyes flashed something fierce then, her fists clenching and unclenching beside her as she watched Clarke. 

Where Clarke’s resolve was crumbling, Lexa’s was building; if ferocity could contain tenderness, that’s where Lexa resided now.

“When we returned from Blue Cliff a couples months ago,” Lexa continued, sounding far away as she focused on a point beyond Clarke’s shoulder, “someone told him you’d been in the tower with me. Anya managed to talk him out of something awful for us both, but he --,” Lexa flinched, the movement speaking volumes more than any words could.

Clarke’s anger was gone now, vanished as quickly as it had come -- replaced only with hurt. She needed to hold Lexa.

“There were consequences.”

The statement settled in the air more heavily than their silence had, the pressure a cause for unease as Clarke shifted in the leaves -- needing to be closer to Lexa.

“Are you -- is everything okay now? I mean, are you --?” Clarke struggled, voice wavering as she studied Lexa’s face. 

The older girl was still staring off into the distance, but it gave Clarke a chance to really look at her. To note the darkness of the circles beneath her eyes that even paint couldn’t hide, a gauntness that seemed to find its roots much deeper than her features -- far too hollowed to exist on a face so young.

As though the softness that once protected her had been carved away with a naked blade.

“What’s done is done,” Lexa stated simply, finally meeting Clarke’s gaze as her eyes gentled almost despite herself. “All that matters is that you’re okay -- that you’re here with me.”

Clarke was closing the distance between them then, wrapping her arms around Lexa as the girl melted into her with an exhalation of relief. They clung to each other, allowing their body heat to warm a single spot on the cold and unforgiving earth as time gave them privacy.

“I was so worried,” Clarke whispered into Lexa’s hair, fighting back tears as Lexa held her tighter. “I thought something happened to you, and I --,”

“I know, Clarke. I know,” Lexa breathed, her fingers finding the curls at the nape of Clarke’s neck. “I’m sorry, I -- I tried everything I could, but I -- he’s forbidden my writing. I can’t get anything out of the city without him knowing. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke assured her, leaning back to press their foreheads together as Lexa’s eyelids fluttered shut. “I’m just glad you’re okay. That campaign was…,”

Clarke trailed off, taking a steadying breath as Lexa nodded, too close for Clarke to make out her expression. 

Lexa stepped back then, turning away from Clarke and grabbing her hand to pull her towards the trunk of a wide oak tree. She sat down on the forest floor with her back resting against its base, widening her legs just enough so that Clarke could settle comfortably between them. The younger girl pressed her back to Lexa’s front, intertwining their fingers and wrapping Lexa’s arms around her.

It was the most comfortable Clarke had been in months.

“Anya said it was the longest one she’d ever been on,” Lexa spoke, sounding a little faraway again even as her chin nuzzled the top of Clarke’s head. “We barely saw battle in the winter months, but when the weather turned --,” Lexa swallowed, Clarke feeling as much as hearing it as the older girl went quiet. 

Clarke squeezed Lexa’s hand in hers, letting the girl know she was here -- that nothing too painful to relive had to be spoken. Lexa let out a breath neither of them knew she was holding when she felt it.

“You did what you had to do,” Clarke assured her firmly after a moment, feeling Lexa return the squeeze. “For our people.”

Lexa adjusted slightly, pulling Clarke closer to her as she settled a cheek on the younger girl’s head. She sighed, the depth of it weaving a sadder tale than any Clarke had yet to know.

“Anya says the same thing, so it must be true, but --,” Lexa swallowed again, growing impossibly quieter as she continued. “I don’t know if war was the right thing -- the _ necessary _ thing. I don’t know if it ever is.” 

Clarke was quiet for a while, thinking. She didn’t know much of politics or diplomacy, but she knew enough to say:

“It’s the easy thing.”

Lexa stilled, the movement of her thumb against the back of Clarke’s hand stuttering. Its rhythm resumed after a moment, her arms flexing around Clarke before growing looser again.

“So we’ve been told,” Lexa whispered, speaking each word carefully -- a hushed betrayal of some unspoken edict. Clarke nodded, understanding the sentiment if nothing else. 

They allowed a comfortable silence to stretch between them in the aftermath, enveloping them in concert with the night where only stars illuminated their surroundings now. Clarke knew they would both stay this way forever if the world allowed it.

“How is the girl? The one who was hurt?” Lexa asked after a bit, sounding more relaxed than Clarke had heard her in ages.

“Octavia. She’ll be okay. Lost a lot of blood --,” Lexa twitched behind Clarke, arms tightening around her at the memory of it, “-- but my mom took care of it. She was amazing.”

“So were you,” Lexa responded easily, pride seeping into her tone. “I’ve never heard of someone making the trip from here to Tondisi and back in so little time. I couldn’t have done it.”

Clarke giggled, feeling an odd blush heat her cheeks as she fought the urge to squirm in Lexa’s hold. 

“Yes, you could’ve. Your legs are longer than mine -- you would’ve made it there and back in two leaps.”

It was Lexa’s turn to laugh, squeezing Clarke tight and drawing more giggles from the younger girl as they swayed a little. One of Lexa’s hands moved to Clarke’s braid after a while, gliding over it as Clarke closed her eyes, entirely content.

“Anya’s even worse at braiding than Elys and Luna, you know -- well, not worse, but she refuses to do it. Tells me it’s a waste of her time.” 

Clarke snorted, sitting up and as far from Lexa as she could manage in the girl’s arms, grinning. Their faces were still so close.

“One of these days, you’re going to have to figure out how to do it for yourself.”

“I know _ how _,” Lexa insisted, playful and adoring as a corner of her mouth ticked up. “But why bother when I have you?”

Clarke narrowed her eyes as she fought a widening grin, hoping Lexa couldn’t feel the trembling in her hands. That godforsaken sparrow had lost its _ mind. _

Clarke got up on her knees, breaking Lexa’s hold and ignoring the girl’s exaggerated frown as she motioned for Lexa to turn around. Delight transformed the nightblood’s painted features as she complied, legs crossing with knees brushing the tree trunk as Clarke fanned her hair out. 

Using muscle memory, Clarke began to weave tiny braids through Lexa’s long hair in the dim starlight. She worked in that comfortable silence as she felt all the lingering tension evaporate from the girl in front of her. 

When it became too hard on her eyes, Clarke stopped, wrapping Lexa in a hug from behind and resting her head on the girl’s shoulder. Lexa hummed in contentment, hands circling Clarke’s wrists where they hung around her like a second necklace. 

“I have something for you,” Lexa spoke after a moment, moving to stick her hand inside a hidden pocket in her overcoat. “I thought I’d need a small miracle to get it to you today, but --,”

Clarke felt something small and metal press into the palm of her left hand, deft fingers closing hers around the object. She sat back on her heels, feeling more than seeing Lexa turn around to watch her as she held it up between her thumb and pointer in the sparse moonlight. 

It was an intricate carving of metal -- copper, from the looks of it, and precious. As Clarke studied it closer, her eyes widened; the carving was of a bird, small and familiar. She gasped in astonishment, realizing.

A sparrow. The bird was a _ sparrow. _

“Happy birthday, Clarke.”

She _ threw _ herself at Lexa, knocking the older girl into the tree trunk as arms wrapped themselves around her. Lexa chuckled softly, rubbing soothing circles onto Clarke’s back. 

Clarke felt _ everything _. 

All of the afternoons spent waiting in uncertain weather for empty hands and pity. All the times she’d turned to speak to someone who was too far away to listen. All of the nights spent staring out her window, wondering if the moon looked just as big in the north, the stars just as bright.

All of the funeral pyres she’d stood beside, refusing to believe that a body could burn so fiercely and leave so little behind.

Lexa pushed ever so gently on Clarke’s shoulders, just enough so that their eyes could meet as she ran her thumbs across damp cheeks. Her expression was unreadable, a mosaic of feeling Clarke couldn’t name but thought she understood all the same. 

Everything reflected back at her.

“Clarke? Lexa?” 

Clarke startled at the sound of her mother’s voice, jerking back a bit as Lexa sat up straight. The two girls shared a look, solemnity rolling over them like a foreboding cloud as Lexa got to her feet slowly, pulling Clarke with her. 

They took their time moving out of the tree’s shadow, their fingers tangling together as they glanced between the forest around them and each other.

Clarke had known it couldn’t last forever -- her father had told her that nothing truly good ever did -- but she’d hoped. Felt it was even possible at one point, the feeling of Lexa’s steady heartbeat against her back.

“There you are,” Abbi called to them, sounding more than a little relieved, only her silhouette visible from this distance as she approached through the trees. Anya was with her, keeping pace as the moonlight hinted at her sharpest edges. 

“We were beginning to worry you two had run off.”

Lexa’s hand twitched slightly around Clarke’s, the movement telling of a desire she would never be allowed to speak freely of. Clarke glanced at her profile, understanding.

“Indra will be expecting us to return before the night’s feast concludes,” Anya stated after a moment, impatience cutting through her usual evenness -- though not directed at her present company, it seemed. “Appearances for appearance’s sake, as it were.”

Lexa stiffened next to Clarke, the movement pulling her spine straighter as she nodded once. 

(It was then that Clarke realized she still had no clue _ why _ Lexa and Anya were in Tondisi, or what possessed the notoriously absentee Commander from visiting one of his most prosperous villages. Clarke wondered if any of the other nightbloods were there with them -- or, to that end, whether any of them had been assigned to warriors like Lexa had in the first place. 

There were so many things Clarke still didn’t know; regardless, everything paled in comparison to the warmth of the girl beside her -- that steadfast grip encompassing hers. The fact that Lexa was here, _ alive _, put every other aspect and uncertainty of the world around Clarke to shame.)

“Shall we head back, then?” Abbi asked after a moment, filling the darkening silence with an air of lightness as she turned and led the way.

The walk back was neither long nor eventful, but each second that passed seemed to occupy new space in Clarke’s mind as she memorized every detail of the girl beside her -- every breath and movement. Lexa appeared to be doing the same, glancing over and often meeting Clarke’s eyes on her with that secret smile she reserved for her best friend alone. Their hands remained interlocked, Lexa’s thumb swiping absently over Clarke’s skin as they made their way beneath the night sky. 

Far too soon, they were standing in front of the hut, Abbi and Anya sharing quiet words with Clarke’s father who’d finally returned from his shop after a long day. Lexa faced Clarke, clasping both of the younger girl’s hands in hers as her jaw worked, eyes casted downwards -- as though nervous all of a sudden.

“I know I can’t --,” Lexa swallowed, voice a ragged whisper as Clarke waited patiently, squeezing Lexa’s hands in silent encouragement. “It’s not fair of me to ask this of you since I’m unable to do the same, but I --,”

Clarke smiled softly, knowing even as the words died on the other girl’s lips.

“I won’t miss a week. I promise.”

Lexa all but deflated with relief, pulling Clarke into her as her fingers tangled in the tunic on the girl’s back. 

Clarke breathed as deeply as she could, fighting back tears that she knew would only make this harder as her face tucked into Lexa’s hair. The older girl brushed her cheek against Clarke’s braid, lips tickling the shell of Clarke’s ear as she whispered:

“Not a moment will go by that I won’t think of you.”

Her warmth was gone from Clarke in the next moment, the change as abrupt as if Lexa had wrenched herself back -- forcing her body to act against its own desires. 

The older girl joined her warrior then, the two of them nodding in respect to Clarke’s parents before turning to head back in the direction from which they’d come. 

Clarke told herself it didn’t hurt, watching the two of them go knowing she couldn’t follow. Watching Lexa’s frame get smaller and smaller along the border of the village, the night’s shadows too unpredictable for Clarke to see if the girl looked back. 

Told herself she would be okay with not knowing, not seeing her best friend or feeling the smooth texture of Lexa’s words inked on parchment ever again. Told herself she could go on forever like that, sending her thoughts, hopes, and dreams into the ether to receive nothing but silence and foreboding in return.

Told herself that crying was no way to end her birthday as she placed the sparrow on her windowsill with care, willing its twin to leave her in peace for just this once. Told herself there was reason to hope for something more someday as she tucked herself beneath her bed furs.

Clarke had always been good at lying to herself. 

  
  


\---

  
  


_ April 2143 _

  
  


Clarke bid the courier farewell, waving him away as he retreated into the forest. She sighed as the top of his head disappeared over the hill, trying not to dwell on the feeling -- whatever it was, this agitated curling in her chest.

Trying not to think of her empty pockets in return.

Clarke started back towards Chergeda, doing her best to shift her thoughts to the day ahead -- to another afternoon spent observing and assisting her mother’s work. Her apprenticeship had given the days a merciful pace throughout winter’s duration, providing her refuge in productive distraction as she attended house calls in all manner of weather. 

Her father had seemed rather thrilled by her choice, promising her that his shop was in good hands with Wells taking her place as his primary student. The two of them became thick as thieves within days of Wells’s tenancy, confirming to Clarke that she’d made the right decision when she overheard some of their ridiculous banter in passing. 

A couple of birds chirped in the canopy above as Clarke walked through the central market of her village, the passersby in high spirits as the mild climate signaled new horizons for them. 

She was nearly to her hut when she heard the screams, distant and blood-curdling. It stopped her dead in her tracks, a chill crawling down her spine in the prolonged silence that followed -- knowing almost intuitively what was coming.

The bell, three tolls on its old casing -- as familiar and terrifying to the residents of Trigeda as any recurring nightmare in their collective consciousness. 

Signalling a horde of reapers on its way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was already mostly written when i posted the last update, so i figured i'd go ahead and publish it cause why not?? i made y'all wait like 6 months between the last two updates (oops), so it's the least i can do really. besides, life is short and times are wild. 
> 
> hope you're all safe and doing as well as you possibly can wherever you are. love and solidarity to any of you essential workers on the frontlines. 
> 
> until next time!


	4. Chapter 4

_April 2143 _

Clarke had never seen so much blood. 

She darted between a couple of makeshift stretchers in the dirt, nearly tripping over the outstretched arm of a dying man.

“Gauze,” her mother demanded, holding out her hand as Clarke sidled up to her. 

Abbi took what her daughter gave her, mouth tightening into a hard line as she noticed the state of the material. 

They had been at this since high noon, the sun now long gone beneath the horizon, and supplies were running low. A messenger was sent to Tondisi for backup hours ago, but nothing had come of it. Even Abbi’s request to Wytgeda and the surrounding villages had yielded nothing in return, and Clarke knew they couldn’t go on like this for much longer.

The reapers had attacked Chergeda’s western trading outpost, slaughtering two and wounding at least a dozen more. The residents fought back as best they could, but many were caught off-guard, taken by surprise in the midst of what they’d thought was a routine barter exchange. A couple young men had been taken, the usual toll for this sort of attack beyond the immediate bloodshed. 

The fact that the reapers had stopped short of invading the village was a blessing to be sure, but one Clarke could scarcely comprehend as she watched her mother bandage another hastily-stitched wound.

“Is your father back yet?”

“Haven’t seen him,” Clarke responded, looking around the tent they’d cleared for emergency patients in search of his blonde hair. “I can run out and check --,”

“No,” her mother cut her off, abrupt and unquestionable. “I need you here. Fetch more candles for this row -- we’re losing light.”

Clarke was jogging to the supply kits on the other side of the tent before her mother could finish, just managing to dodge Erik as he made to do the same. Erik was a kind soul about 7 years her senior with big, bright eyes who’d been working with Abbi since he was Clarke’s age. He specialized in the creation of healing salves and medicinal treatments, so he rarely saw combat wounds firsthand unless there were attacks like this. 

Clarke's stomach dropped when she noticed how pale his face had gotten since sundown.

“We’re going to have to amputate,” Abbi told her daughter the second she returned, gesturing to the gushing wound splitting an unconscious man’s calf. 

Clarke paled, feeling the air leave her lungs in a sharp exhale as the blood rushed to her head. She didn’t know if she could handle _ that _ just yet. 

“There’s a tool at the bottom of my field kit --,”

Abbi’s instructions were interrupted by the swoosh of fabric as someone entered the tent -- multiple someones. Clarke turned, relief washing over her at the sight of Nyko and her father ahead of two others. Any other reprieve she would’ve felt was instantly stamped out of her chest by the looks on both mens’ faces -- grave and tragic. 

“What took you so long?” Abbi demanded of them, barely glancing up as she readied her patient for the worst surgery of his life. 

Nyko strode over immediately, moving to stand opposite Clarke’s mother and assessing the scene with hard eyes. Clarke felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to meet her father’s eyes on her, expression unreadable.

“Nyko and the others will take it from here -- come with me, sweetheart.” 

She didn’t get the chance to protest, her father pulling her out of the tent and into the night air before she could even take a proper breath. He walked her over to a nearby tree, all but pushing her against it as he fell back on its trunk. 

Clarke looked over at him, utterly dumbstruck as he took a swig from his canteen and looked around. Looking everywhere but at her. She did the same after a moment, watching the flurry of motion beneath the ambient glow of torchlight as villagers hurried around outside the tent doing whatever it was they did in situations like this.

Truth be told, she’d never been allowed to see the aftermath of such an attack before -- hadn’t the faintest clue what recovery would look like outside of the medical tent.

“The reapers attacked several villages,” her father stated, pulling Clarke out of her train of thought and drawing her eyes to his grim profile. “All the surrounding villages took casualties -- that’s why it took us so long to get back. Nyko had to coordinate supply distribution with several healers.”

Clarke nodded, swallowing with some difficulty as she struggled to fathom what that meant. She’d never heard of a horde hitting more than one village at once before; the suffering was usually more drawn-out, lasting over days and even weeks when the reapers emerged from their cavernous place in hell.

“Wytgeda took the worst of it.”

The words sat in the air like poison, suffocating and all-encompassing. They left ice in Clarke’s veins, sending her heart thundering into her ears as she stared at her father with blurring vision. 

Willing him not to say it. _ Begging _ him. 

He finally met her gaze then, eyes brimming with tears as his throat worked. It was the first time she’d ever seen what true anguish did to his features, the way it pulled his skin taut and painful.

“Lexa’s mother didn’t make it, sweetheart. She --,” he choked on the words, jaw working as he forced his eyes to the ground. He shook his head once, refusing to finish. Refusing to relive the details. 

Clarke was going to be sick.

“Her father,” he continued after a beat, voice a harsh rasp as he scuffed his boot in the dirt, “has disappeared. A girl -- Raven, I think her name was -- claims she saw him tied up and taken, but we haven’t been able to confirm anything. Too many have been lost to know for certain at this point.”

_ Kind eyes and quiet gratitude. Pride shining from every inch of them. Standing strong for their daughter even as they lost a piece of themselves to the fulfillment of an inevitable destiny, a most painfully uncertain future -- _

Clarke lurched around the tree, keeling over as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the dirt. Remembering wild hair and a pretty face, green eyes above a soft smile reserved for his wife and daughter.

As frozen in time as the world now that much colder with their loss.

  
  


\---

  
  


The villages lost close to 50 people in the reaper attack, the most that had ever been lost to those monsters. 

They sent word of the attack to Polis after they’d taken stock of the dead, preparing a list of names to be read out so that any family members in or around the capitol could make arrangements to attend the funeral. The fastest messenger in all of the villages had been sent away as soon as Nyko and Abbi finished their totals, making preparations to preserve the bodies -- or what remained of them -- until the mourners could properly gather.

Now, Clarke watched as the last of the bodies was placed on its pyre, the lot of them laid out in rows in the middle of a clearing halfway between Chergeda and Tondisi. Nyko placed his hand on the shoulder of the man painstakingly situating his dead, helping him back toward the onlooking mourners with sickening gentlessness. 

Ironically, it was the most beautiful day Clarke had seen in a while, the sky a perfectly clear blue and the wind a gentle combatant to the warm sunlight streaming down. It had been eight days since the attack -- enough time for the villages to plan a proper funeral in their clan’s honored tradition. They’d all come together in the clearing, united to mourn the collective loss of far too many to death and the unknown. 

Clarke looked at her kinsmen, eyes catching on the wetness of cheeks and the heaviness of shoulders all around. Her mother stood a little ways off, slightly to the left and away from the crowd, head bowed in a solemnity very few would understand. 

But Clarke knew.

Abbi and Nyko had worked till they were both swaying with exhaustion, saving every life they could to the detriment of their own. Clarke’s father had allowed her to go back to the healers’ tent after a fitful night’s rest, her stubborn demands yielding his resignation. 

Erik was near-dead by the time she arrived, collapsed and fighting sleep against the same tree Clarke had been sick over. She placed a gentle hand on his forearm, rousing him enough to send him home before making her way into the tent. 

To Clarke’s astonishment, the scene inside was far less dire than she’d anticipated; the din of dying moans no longer stiffened the air, instead replaced by soft snores and labored breathing. Her heart thudded with despair to see a sheet covering a lone pallet, the outline of the body beneath painting far too vivid a picture for Clarke to linger on. 

Abbi and Nyko were seated in adjacent chairs at the far end of the tent, the two of them pale and deflated as they sat in heavy silence -- covered in the blood of strangers. Abbi perked up slightly at the sight of Clarke, eyes filling as she met her daughter’s resolute gaze. 

Then, wordlessly, Clarke began her rounds as she’d been taught, going from patient to patient all the while tidying up as she went. The sense of purpose those minute duties gave her was even more dizzying on this particular morning. 

Clarke did everything she could not to think of the loss -- the great hole that seemed to have ripped itself in the earth. There was a part of her that couldn’t quite grasp the permanence of the change, couldn’t quite fathom the strange new rhythm of life she’d woken up to that morning. She believed it would take years until she could truly make sense of it. Even then, perhaps not.

A slight commotion snapped Clarke back to the present, her eyes searching the crowd for the source as the noise in the clearing picked up.

The crowd parted near the center, and Clarke felt her eyes go wide as she watched the Commander, himself, striding through to the front with warriors in tow. Her stomach dropped rather painfully as she spotted Gustus among other unknown faces, the man somber and unreadable. Indra appeared at the Commander’s flank as well, joined by the leaders of the other villages -- Wells’s father among them, representing Chergeda. Those that made up the Commander’s guard were followed by another group, this one comprised of far more familiar faces --

And Clarke really should have seen it coming.

Proceeded by Anya and another warrior Clarke couldn’t name were the nightbloods, two short rows lined up behind the warriors who led them. The group of them was dressed in identical uniforms to that which Clarke had seen them wear in Polis, faces painted in each of their distinctive individual styles.

Clarke wished this part would get easier. 

Seeing Lexa, face painted and armor in place, too far away to call out to but just close enough to study. Her eyes cast straight ahead, expression --

No, that couldn’t be. 

Clarke squinted, taking an unconscious step forward, feeling her heart hammering away in her chest with distinct punches. She was sure her eyes were playing tricks, that it must be some lingering bleariness morphing the scene before her.

“Citizens of Trigeda,” the Commander spoke, arms extended beside him as his voice projected across the quiet clearing to his people. 

He stood alone a few feet in front of the crowd, facing them with a solemn expression beneath warpaint that seemed to hollow out his eyes. He was a tall man with hair so blonde it was nearly white, long and braided in intricate patterns that fell over his shoulder -- always primed perfectly for every audience he held, no matter the capacity. 

It was any wonder, by the look of him, that the man hadn’t traded the Commander’s symbol on his forehead for a crown dipped in gold to better suit his stature. 

“I stand before you in mourning, feeling the loss of our brothers and sisters with great pain and regret. What we lost in the attack will never be recovered, and not a day will go by when I won’t think of those who were stolen from us long before their fight was truly over.”

Clarke fought the urge to grimace, feeling a growing discomfort at the tone of his voice, the set of his shoulders. As though he was performing someone else’s words. 

She looked around, searching for that familiar face -- holding out hope that her eyes had deceived her. To her disappointment, the nightbloods appeared to have been swallowed by the crowd.

“Although it will be some time before we can make sense of all this, one thing can be known for certain right this very moment: this attack _ will not _ go unavenged. For as long as we carry our dead with us, there will be a reckoning on the horizon. The fate of those who hide beneath the earth like the pathetic parasites they are will be _ far worse _ than death.” 

A murmur picked up in the crowd, the growing sentiment unifying the mourners in a way that these circumstances always did. In a way their culture demanded.

“As your Commander and the leader of this great clan, I promise you -- the Mountain _ will _ fall under my reign. The dead will be avenged, and blood _ will _ have blood! _ Jus drein, jus daun! Jus drein, jus daun! _”

Clarke sighed, feeling a heaviness settle in her chest as the crowd picked up the chant she’d heard since birth. She watched the faces of those around her transform, consumed by the promise of the phrase that they’d come to equate with justice. 

To her surprise -- and an odd surge of regret she couldn’t comprehend -- Clarke watched as her parents allowed themselves to be consumed by the chant as well, their voices joining the vengeful cacophony with fists raised in the air. They jostled with the crowd, becoming one with their kinsmen as they channeled their grief and fury into the refuge of tradition. (Clarke didn’t miss the glistening of her mother’s cheeks, the way her cries seemed to be closer to broken sobs than the threat of violence.)

In that moment, surrounded by calls for more death in a field of corpses, Clarke had never felt more alone in her silence. 

  
  


\---

  
  


She hadn’t been mistaken.

Looking at the girl now, Clarke couldn’t believe it. But she hadn’t been wrong. 

She watched from the shadow of the treeline as the families of those slain approached the pyres designated to their individual loved ones; still, she found herself unable to focus on anyone other than the lone nightblood walking to one of the pyres closer to where Clarke stood now. 

The rest of the crowd looked on as the Commander’s torch was lit, watching in silence as the man walked from pyre to pyre lighting the torches of the family members standing before them. When he got to Lexa, standing alone before her mother’s pyre, Clarke genuinely felt like she would be sick. Tears streamed down her cheeks in rivulets, her heart racing in her chest as her hands trembled. 

She sucked in a sharp breath as Lexa’s torch sparked to flame, the light dancing off the girl’s features and illuminating everything Clarke wished she didn’t see -- couldn’t actually believe she was seeing.

Nothing. There was nothing in Lexa’s expression -- not pain, nor sadness. Not even anger. Just _ nothing _. 

A blankness that evened the girl’s features behind her warpaint to unreadable stoicism. The flickering light of the flame catching on the slight hollow beneath her cheekbones. The way it caught there for a moment -- it made Lexa look far older than she truly was.

Clarke watched with her mouth agape and temples pounding, unable to process the scene before her as the last of the torches was lit. The Commander stood on the far side of the pyres from the crowd, torch extended into the air as he called out:  
  
“And now, our brave warriors, family, and friends -- _ yu gonplei ste odon.” _

As the words echoed across the clearing, the torches were lowered to their final destinations, igniting as one with pointed finality. The fire caught with a quickness that left Clarke breathless, swallowing the pyres whole as the dead’s mourners clutched at themselves and each other -- fighting to stay far enough away not to be burned. 

Lexa, though, was still. So incredibly, _ agonizingly _ still. Staring into the fire with fists clenched at her sides, betraying nothing of feeling but the rhythm of her own breathing. 

Clarke _ ached. _

After the longest few minutes of her life, the flames began to subside. The Commander walked back through the center aisle between the pyres still transforming to ash, re-joining the crowd that began to disperse as soon as their leader signalled to. 

On instinct, Clarke side-stepped to tuck herself against a tree, hidden by the shadows as neighbors and kin retreated back into the forest. She glanced sideways to find her mother’s eyes on her, watery and weighted, before a knowing look flashed across her features. Abbi nodded to her daughter, allowing Jakob to lead her back to the village after a beat. 

All else was lost to Clarke mere moments later, her eyes glued straight ahead even as passersby crossed her path of sight. Focused on one of the last of the mourners still stood before their loved one’s pyre -- the lone silhouette rooted in place before the ashes of her mother. 

  
  


\---

  
  


Clarke watched, waited.

Waited until she was the only other person in the clearing besides Lexa, growing more jittery with each lingering person who disappeared into the treeline. Waited until she could take the deep breath she so desperately needed, despite how it evaded her. Waited until she was confident she had enough control over her tears for the sake of her best friend. 

Waited until her feet would carry her forward. 

She crossed the distance between like a hunter might approach its flighty prey, careful to keep every breath and toe in line as her heart thundered beneath every inch of her skin. It seemed to be taking forever, this walk, the eerie silence of the otherwise-empty clearing doing little to aid in the circumstance. 

When she was but a few feet away from the other girl, Clarke stopped. She’d made herself perfectly visible in Lexa’s periphery, making no attempt to hide as she stood a few yards away from the other girl. Both of them now frozen in place.

Lexa didn’t turn, didn’t even flinch. Made absolutely zero acknowledgement of Clarke’s presence. Just kept staring at the last of the sparks glinting in her mother’s ashes -- unmoving, unseeing.

Clarke willed herself to stay put, fingers biting into the soft skin of her palms as she fought the urge to -- what? She had no idea what to do, what to say. She was just. Fighting.

The remnants of smoke created a strange sort of fog that clung to the earth around them, tendrils rippling in every direction as the sun streamed through its breaks. It would have been beautiful -- ethereal, even -- had the smell not stung so pungently.

Then, finally:

“I can’t remember the last thing I said to her.”

Clarke blinked, breath catching at the hollow tone of the words before she even knew what to make of them. She didn’t move, scarcely dared to breathe as she watched Lexa -- waited for her to continue. 

Lexa didn’t look at her, didn’t so much as move a muscle.

“I know I -- I must’ve said I loved her.” Lexa’s jaw clenched, her fingers curling into white-knuckled fists. “I think I -- I must have.”

Clarke swallowed, blinking through the wetness in her eyes that she refused to let fall. She could at least give Lexa that much.

“I’m sure you did,” she managed, voice rough with emotion. Clarke was fighting _ so _ hard. “She knew how much you loved her.”

Lexa’s eyes closed at that, the first sign that anything was reaching her -- that anything was touching her at all. Her head fell in the next moment, eyes cast to the ashes. Completely hidden from Clarke now.

“Did she?”

The words were small, broken. Coming from a place so young, so _ vulnerable _, that Clarke nearly gasped. It was too much to process, an admission of fear so bone-deep, so shattering, that Clarke was sure it would take years for her to understand its implications.

She took a step closer, pulled on a string toward the other girl despite herself. Lexa didn’t look up, the quickened rise and fall of her shoulders the only hint she was struggling now.

“Titus says we don’t belong to them -- that we never did,” Lexa continued after a bit, quieted by strain. “He says the moment we were born, we belonged to Trigeda. To the flame. Everything else was just. Preparation.”

Clarke bristled, feeling a spark flare in her chest on the nightblood’s behalf -- a welcome reprieve. What kind of lesson -- what did that even _ mean? _

“I hope she didn’t know that. I hope neither of them did.”

There was a fierceness to the words, teetering just on the edge of devastation. As though even the _ possibility _ of that hope dashed would be enough to leave the girl in ruin. 

Clarke didn’t even think about it.

The next moment, she was surging forward, pulling Lexa into her with a force so strong it left them both breathless. Clarke tucked her head into Lexa’s shoulder, hands clutching at the rough fabric on the girl’s back -- forcing herself not to lose it completely. 

Lexa was rigid, hands still clenched into fists at her sides as Clarke pressed in as close as possible. Clarke could feel Lexa’s heart racing dangerously against her chest, her own pulse roaring as she squeezed her eyes shut. 

After a few harrowing moments, Lexa finally allowed her body to respond, hands coming up to settle lightly on the small of Clarke’s back. Her cheek brushed against Clarke’s hair, so gently it could’ve been mistaken for the wind.

But it was -- this hug was different. This was new. 

Lexa, though returning the embrace, remained rigid. Everything about her was stiff, from the way she held her shoulders to the press of her hands against Clarke’s back. There was nothing warm about this -- nothing either of them could melt into. 

Where once there was relief, now there was foreboding; where there used to be freedom, now there was restraint.

Clarke’s heart thudded unevenly, feeling the change somewhere far deeper as she, too, stiffened. Her fingertips were cold all of a sudden, a prickling at the top of her head setting her teeth on edge. 

She pulled away, dropping her arms and stepping back. Lexa’s gaze on her was filled with that same unyielding blankness, a facade that betrayed nothing as she studied the younger girl’s face.

Clarke felt her teeth begin to chatter, a shiver picking up throughout her body from somewhere deep inside her bones. She had no idea what to say; no words would even come close to defining her thoughts now.

“There you are.”

The familiar voice startled Clarke, drawing her gaze around as it landed on Anya standing a few feet away. The warrior’s arms were crossed, expression unreadable as ever as she looked between the two of them. 

“The Commander’s caravan will be headed back to Tondisi soon. I told Indra we wouldn’t be far behind.”

Clarke looked over in time to see Lexa nod once, jaw working as she looked at her mentor. There was a storm brewing in the depths of her eyes, but Clarke could no better parse out its darkness than she could break through Anya’s steel.

“May I have a word with you, Clarke?” the warrior asked after a beat, tone even but surprisingly gentle. “We’ll give you a moment of privacy, Lexa. I’ll be back for you shortly.”

Before Clarke could argue, Anya was turning on her heels, walking back toward the treeline with the clear expectation that the younger girl would be right behind her. 

Clarke stilled, feeling her heartbeat behind her eyes as she watched the warrior tuck into the shadow of the trees. She looked at Lexa then, feeling utterly and completely helpless. Speechless, too.

The other girl returned her gaze, forests of green a barren landscape now.

“You should go,” Lexa stated quietly after a moment, lips twitching with the specter of a smile that was more haunting than anything else. “She doesn’t ask twice.”

Clarke forced the huff of a laugh, looking down at her boots as she toed the dirt a little. Everything about this felt so wrong. So cold.

“Lexa, I -- I’m so --,” Clarke choked on her words, struggling, looking back up at the other girl then. Lexa was watching her, eyes hooded. 

They stared at each other in the weighted silence, allowing it to envelop and curl around them like the last wisps of smoke above their heads. Lexa’s eyes softened for a moment, the ghost of warmth flashing across her gaze for the first time since their eyes had met that day.

“I know.”

Clarke could only stare back, fighting to control the chatter of her teeth amidst the shivers traveling through her. This was -- this _ hurt. _

Finally, she turned away, unable to bear another second of this as she put Lexa’s gaze to her back. Her feet carried her toward the forest before she could even think to move, eyes blurring with unshed tears as she went. 

All she had to do was keep breathing, keep focusing on not falling, and she would make it. She would be able to. She had to.

Clarke didn’t even realize she was through the treeline until a hand snagged on her arm, pulling her to a stop so abruptly her teeth clicked together -- temporarily stopping the chattering. She didn’t face the warrior right away, couldn’t. Instead, she just focused on breathing, on not turning back and running to throw herself at Lexa’s feet as tears streaked her cheeks.

“It was always going to be like this.”

Clarke still didn’t turn, unable to face the warrior no matter how desperately she wanted to understand the words.

“The nightbloods had to let go of everything that made them long ago. It’s the only way they can train in the way they need to.” 

Clarke looked at Anya then, vision blurred by tears as the warrior stared off into space. Again, to Clarke’s surprise, there was more of that same gentleness in her gaze as she looked beyond Clarke to the clearing -- to the girl standing alone in the middle of it.

“I would ask --,” Anya swallowed, appearing almost hesitant now as she worked her jaw. “It may be best if your correspondence comes to an end. Sooner rather than later. It could only ever go on for so long.”

Clarke actually stumbled back a step, eyes growing wide with dismay -- feeling like she’d been struck. Feeling something terrible happening beside her sternum. 

It must’ve shown on Clarke’s face, because when Anya finally looked at her, she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and pointer. 

“It’s not -- it’s not _ personal,” _ Anya stated, voice quiet with that same softness. “It is what needs to happen. For her. She might not know it yet, but --,” 

Anya swallowed again, almost grimacing as she looked back to Clarke. It was the first time the younger girl had ever seen the warrior in something even remotely close to a struggle.

Clarke was shaking her head, tears falling in streams as her back scraped against a tree trunk. She was -- this was just. Of _ course _ it was personal. To Clarke, it would always be personal. How could Anya _ say _ that? How could she just -- who did she think she was? 

This wasn’t her life to dictate.

“I know you hate me for asking this of you -- she will, too. That’s fine,” Anya shrugged, regaining some of her impassivity in the face of Clarke’s growing anger. “It’s not my job to be liked. I’m here to make sure she stays alive -- that’s all. Everything else is secondary.”

Clarke didn’t -- she was _ furious. _ Did staying alive mean Lexa had to lose everything that brought her joy? Everything that gave her comfort, even? 

Clarke was so upset she was trembling, eyes burning with it as her hands balled into fists. She didn’t know how to put any of it into words, especially not in the face of the nonchalant warrior who was making it impossible to do so.

“Write a few more letters if you need to. Whatever. Do what you need to do. Just know that the sooner you do as I say, the better off we’ll all be for it.”

Anya turned away then, making it a few steps into the clearing and leaving Clarke utterly stricken in her wake before she paused. The warrior’s back was turned to Clarke, face completely hidden with half of her bathed in sunlight and the other shrouded in shadow.

“She asked about you first.”

The words were nearly lost to a gust of wind that picked up through the trees, causing Clarke to strain to hear. The way Anya spoke, it was as though she was revealing a secret that would damn them all if heard by anyone other than Clarke. But, that didn’t make sense; given what had just transpired, Anya surely didn’t trust or care about Clarke enough to share anything she might value -- 

“When word of the attack reached us in Polis, Lexa asked about you first.”

Anya was walking into the clearing before Clarke could even be certain she’d heard the warrior correctly. She could only stare after the young woman, watching through the turbulence of a storm unnamed as Anya joined the nightblood in the clearing -- a statue marking the loss of something vital.

The loss of the last vestiges of innocence.

  
  


\---

  
  


_ May 2143 _

  
  


It had been weeks, and Clarke hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. 

She went about her days as usual, remaining by her mother’s side and doing everything required of an apprentice. She never slept in, never missed a house call, never even stepped a toe out of line. But her mind refused to quiet.

The aftermath of the attack weighted every waking moment in the village, grief present in the pairs of eyes that met hers in passing as the days wore on. It led Abbi and Clarke to take extra care with each patient, make sure that they felt safe and attended to during every moment spent with the healers. It was the least they could do in the service of their people, as Clarke’s mother had said.

That didn’t mean Clarke had to be _ present _ during any of it. 

When her mind wasn’t replaying her conversation with Lexa on a loop -- how their hug had left her with a chill that ran even deeper than bone -- it was riling Clarke up anew over Anya’s request. 

She’d continued to write her letters every week like clockwork, feeling re-invigorated in her cause out of pure spite for everyone and anyone who would seek to deter her. She had even been extra early to the last courier pickup as well, waiting for the man with a wide grin stretching her features as she handed him the parcel. 

There was a part of Clarke’s mind that feared what would happen if she continued to defy Anya’s wishes. It was the same part of her that wondered if Lexa even _ wanted _ Clarke to write to her anymore. If she even read the letters at all. 

_ She asked about you first. _

It was pure spite. That’s what put Clarke’s ink to paper each week. That’s what would keep her going for the foreseeable future. For however long was necessary to prove that she wouldn’t be scared off by a bully in warpaint. To prove that she understood that grief could make people cold, and she would be there for her friend no matter how much it hurt her to do so.

_ \-- Lexa asked about you first. _

Clarke was far too good of a liar.

  
  


\---

  
  


_ June 2143 _

  
  


She had missed a week. 

It wasn’t her intention, but her days had been longer and her body more exhausted; so, she found it acceptable to tuck one less letter into the package. Lexa would understand -- she had to know that Clarke’s days were long, too, even if her purpose wasn’t as great in the eyes of many.

(_ Would _ Lexa understand? Would she even notice? Had she seen the tiny water stain on Clarke’s last letter and understood that neither rainfall nor canteen droplet could cause such a specific smearing of ink? 

It was getting harder for Clarke to imagine what Lexa thought, or picture how her face might soften as she read her friend’s writing. Did Lexa still soften?)

Clarke wouldn’t miss another week. Everyone was allowed to slip up every now and again, and this was Clarke’s first in years -- at least in this aspect of her life. 

She could only hope that Lexa wouldn’t think too much about it. 

(Perhaps there was a part of her that hoped Lexa would do just that.)

  
  


\---

  
  


_ September 2143 _

  
  


“There’s no way that’s true. You’re just telling tales now.”

“Am not! If it bursts, it could kill you; but if it never gives you problems, your body won’t be any better off to keep it.”

“Those old books must be full of lies then,” Bellamy scoffed, rolling his eyes before fixing Clarke with a look of boredom. “We’d all be better off if none of us could read them.”

“Not true,” Wells countered immediately, speaking up for Clarke with a pointed finger in the air. “They made a bunch of mistakes before _ Preimfaya _ \-- how would we know not to make them if we couldn’t read about what they did?”

“Well, if we never knew there were any mistakes made in the first place, what would it matter? Can’t repeat something you don’t know you’re repeating,” Bellamy smirked, looking proud of himself as he quirked a brow and leaned back on his hands. 

The creek was clear to its bed down the slope before them, enticing as ever despite the slight chill in the air. 

“I don’t think --,” Wells grimaced, wheels in his mind turning rather obviously. “That’s not how it works. That’s not how _ people _ work.”

“And how do you know that?” Bellamy retorted, his grin growing more crooked by the second. He was relentless, and Wells didn’t know when to quit. 

Clarke rolled her eyes, far beyond done with both of them.

She slid to her feet, walking down to join Octavia who knelt by the waterline searching for shells. The girl looked up as Clarke settled in beside her, smiling happily as she dug her hands into the sediment.

“Bellamy says the rocks turn prettier colors the deeper you dig,” Octavia told her matter-of-factly, concentration leaving a crease between her brows. Clarke fought the urge to snort.

“Yeah? And how does he know that?” she countered, smiling as she echoed Bellamy’s words. The younger girl sifted through the layer of wet dirt in her palm, undeterred.

“He just does,” Octavia stated simply, shrugging as she frowned at her loot. “He knows a lot about most stuff.”

Clarke _ did _ laugh that time, shaking her head in exasperation as Octavia fixed her with a sour look. The girl went back to her digging, huffing in annoyance as she pulled another fist-full out of the creek. 

“Of course he does,” Clarke allowed after she’d contained herself, sitting back to peel off her boots and dunk her feet in the cool water. 

She closed her eyes, humming in contentment as sunlight bathed her body in warmth. Clarke truly lived for days like this, treasuring every moment she could spend without the burden of taking someone else’s life in her hands or mending some gruesome wound ripe with infection. 

On days like this, Clarke had nothing more to worry about than the sun on her face and the friends by her side.

“Hey, Clarke?” Wells clapped a hand on her shoulder, causing her to flinch as she opened one eye to look at him. He stood above her, brow quirked in question. “Isn’t the courier coming today?”

Nothing more to worry about besides _ that. _

The question brought her up short, sending a chill down her spine as she realized: she hadn’t written a single letter this month. She hadn’t written in _ weeks. _

It wasn’t that she didn’t -- of course she _ thought _ about Lexa. Not a day went by where Clakre wouldn’t stop in the middle of a mundane task and wonder if Lexa would be able to make something better out of it. There were few hours in which Lexa’s face _ wouldn’t _ cross her mind at least once -- just the image of her, soft around the edges and smiling. 

But then, the image would change; the lines and curves of her friend’s face would distort, and suddenly the girl from the clearing would appear in her place -- frigid and detached. Uncaring of Clarke’s presence. 

That image, that girl, was beginning to merge with the sacred memories of the friend Clarke knew so well -- that wild-haired fireball who would deflate with pleasure as soon as Clarke’s fingers tangled in her hair. 

No, it wasn’t that Clarke didn’t think of Lexa. It was just. Easier to run fingertips over the long-dried ink of words written by the girl with braids in her hair than to try and contemplate what the girl in the clearing might want to hear from her. 

If she even wanted to hear anything at all. 

“I -- yeah. I think he is,” Clarke responded after a while, tone revealing next to nothing as she looked away from Wells to stare into the rippling waters of the gentle creek. 

She hoped he would understand. Practically _ willed _ him to in the silence that followed. 

A moment later, he crouched down beside her, cocking his head to the side and studying her with a furrow to his brow. Clarke couldn’t meet his gaze; instead, she watched the way the sunlight caught on the smallest of disturbances in the water’s surface, bouncing off at various angles and throwing colorful fractals every which way.

“Okay,” Wells finally accepted, nodding toward the ground with his lips pressed into a line. Considering. 

Clarke looked at him then, eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion, but he just smiled back at her. Nothing but calm and sympathy radiating from his gaze. He had always been the sympathetic one between the two of them, accepting what came at him with the poise and level-headedness of someone far older and wiser.

If only Clarke knew how to do the same. 

  
  


\---

  
  


_ March 2144 _

  
  


It was jarring to see the man in town, walking door to door making his deliveries.

Clarke stopped in her tracks when she spotted him, breath catching in her chest the moment their eyes met. The courier stopped too, quirking a brow in question from across the way. Her heart fluttered in her throat, her pulse amplifying the ache that was growing there.

She could only shake her head in his direction, trying at a smile that died halfway to her cheeks. Upon seeing it, the man nodded once, accepting it with the nonchalance of someone far removed from the _ why _ of Clarke’s decision. She remained frozen as he continued on his route, oblivious to her staring -- or perhaps just uncaring of it. 

It was only when the courier became but a blip on the far earth’s horizon that Clarke realized her nails were biting into the soft skin of her palms, knuckles stark-white. The realization forced her teeth into her bottom lip, the bite rather painful as she struggled to understand her body’s reaction -- the pounding of her heart through every inch of her. 

It wasn’t like -- Clarke hadn’t written a letter in months; nothing about leaving the courier empty-handed was new to her. In fact, she’d been quite surprised to discover the sheer relief that had come with stopping her weekly writings, the joy of that time returned to her. Time to focus on her apprenticeship and the friends who filled her spare moments. 

Truthfully, Clarke didn’t even have the time to write for _ herself _ anymore, let alone for the girl in the clearing. Besides, Anya had said they’d all be better off when Clarke stopped writing and, so far -- on Clarke’s end, at least -- the warrior had been right. 

It was better this way, saving both Clarke and Lexa the distraction, and pre-empting any further outbursts from Titus that Anya would have to deal with. 

Yes, this was the best possible outcome. For all of them. Clarke was only -- she just hadn’t been prepared to see the courier again after so long, that’s all. It was surprise causing her breaths to come short and blood to roar in her ears. That was all.

(Clarke was getting far too good at lying to herself.) 

  
  


\---

  
  


_ July 2144 _

  
  


Clarke was in a positively _ foul _ mood. 

Everything and everyone around her was infuriating, and no one seemed to be taking the hint that she wanted to be left alone. She didn’t get in these moods often but, when she did, those that knew her best tended to steer clear of her. 

_ Tended _ to.

“So, what’s on the agenda today, princess?” Bellamy asked with a quirk to his brow, leaning casually against a tree just beyond as Octavia studied a patch of mushrooms near his feet. “Any lives that need saving?”

Clarke glared at him, feeling agitation simmering off her skin akin to the heat of the afternoon sun. 

As a matter of fact, there probably _ were _ lives that needed saving; there always were, that was the point of the job. But today, Clarke’s mother had given her the day off, and she wasn’t about to spend it sparring words with Bellamy. The fact that he’d even shown up to block her path to the lake was enough to leave her _ seething _. 

“Not today, Bellamy.”

“What do you mean ‘_ not today _’?” Bellamy shot back, moving to keep pace with her as she resumed her walk. Octavia skipped along somewhere behind them, determined to collect as many mushrooms as she could find in the makeshift pocket she’d created out of the fold in her shirt. 

When Clarke didn’t respond, Bellamy tried again, “Come on, princess, where are you --?”

“Will you _ stop _ calling me that?” Clarke snapped, stopping abruptly to round on him. His eyes widened in genuine surprise, hands coming up instinctively. “I’m _ not _ in the mood right now so just -- just leave me alone, okay?”

Something in Bellamy’s expression extinguished then, giving him pause for only a moment before he nodded once. When Clarke turned her back on him, she couldn’t help but notice the way both siblings appeared quite wounded by her tone, sullen as she left them behind. 

Ignoring the flash of guilt that cut through her chest, Clarke carried on, determined to make it to her destination without any further interruption. Though it took her longer than expected -- she hadn’t been to the lake in over a year, maybe more than that -- Clarke was relieved to find she was its only visitor today. 

She couldn’t blame her people; the afternoon was positively _ sweltering _, the sun beating down on every inch of the forest with tangible force. But Clarke knew what she was in for, and it was all the better that she got to go it alone. 

As she peeled off her boots and submerged her bare feet in the chilled waters lapping the shoreline, Clarke looked up at the clear blue sky, wondering why it always happened on such beautiful days. This day. This time between sunrise and sunfall that had haunted her for years now. 

The first of July. The settling in of a new season -- one heightened by the agitation of heated skin and restless nights spent trying to find cool. Marred by a sense of greater threat from the Mountain so keen on picking them off in their most disgruntled state. 

Lexa’s birthday.

A flash in Clarke’s mind -- a girl with hunched shoulders and puffy eyes, wild hair framing tragedy beneath the canopy’s intermittent light. It had been sometime later in the month when they’d met, but Clarke couldn’t help but think that if she’d known it was Lexa’s birth month, then maybe things would’ve been different. She didn’t know how, and she figured the difference would only be slight, but. 

It was those trivial details and fleeting what-ifs that her mind mulled over these days.

_ “Do you want a hug?” _

Clarke bent to pick up the flattest rock she could find, turning it over in her hand as she chewed her bottom lip. This day shouldn’t -- there was no reason for it to be like this. This _ awfulness _, expanding in her chest and scratching at the inside of her ribcage. There was hardly a way to describe it to anyone so that they’d understand, so Clarke just didn’t -- instead opting to make herself so unapproachable that no one would bother asking why. 

_ “Are you afraid?” _

She stepped back to gather momentum, angling the rock in the way Wells had taught her before chucking it into the water. It skipped once, twice, and a hint of a third time before plopping beneath the crystalline surface and sinking down. Clarke sighed, feeling her disappointment compound.

Was it guilt? She’d only ever felt the emotion a handful of times in her life so far, but the unfamiliarity of this nonsense in Clarke’s chest left her feeling like it might be so. It was different from the flash of panic and regret that’d struck her that morning when she’d realized she hadn’t wished Lexa a happy birthday. When her eyes had locked on to the copper sparrow keeping watch on her windowsill. This was entirely different.

(Clarke hadn’t felt _ her _ sparrow for some time now. She wondered if it had flown away -- if that was even possible.)

Could guilt feel so miserable? Anya’s face, stern and unmoved, flashed across Clarke’s mind then. It sunk deep in her chest to nestle up to the awfulness, a storm-cloud now doubled in size. The image in her mind’s eye changed then, settling on the girl in the clearing, the emptiness in those eyes --

_ You did what you had to do. _

Clarke’s own words took on an entirely different meaning for her now, a heaviness settling in as the realization hit her. 

This may have all resulted from Anya’s request, but both Clarke and Lexa had roles to play in this as well -- and not just those that were obvious to them now.

No, these roles were bigger than all of them; they ran as deep as each of their individual ties to Trikru. This was about duty -- to their clan, to the Flame, to the land itself. Playing their interwoven parts to protect their most sacred ritual, to guarantee that the legacy of the Commanders would be carried on. 

_ For our people. _

It felt like needles going down, jagged and painful with the swallow. Then, suddenly, a surge of white-hot anger flared up so quickly in the aftermath that Clarke thought she might actually regurgitate her pain. 

She sank into the sediment, unphased by the bite of cold that struck a sharp contrast to the heat overwhelming her from all sides. 

She hadn’t signed up for this. She didn’t want any part of this -- not in the slightest. Clarke was still a kid, no matter how everyone treated the healer’s apprentice they saw in her place. In fact, no matter how hard everyone around her tried to steal the years from her with their broken bones and fatal wounds, she’d felt more her age lately -- especially on this day -- than she’d ever felt before. 

So, today of all days, at the age she was on this day, Clarke decided she’d had enough. No more guilt. 

She hadn’t _ asked _ to befriend a nightblood; she hadn’t asked to then become that nightblood’s _ distraction _either. 

Clarke hadn’t been the one to end the friendship; someone else had tugged the strings, and she’d simply gone in the direction she’d been pulled. Truthfully, there was no reason for Clarke to keep beating herself up with the thought of the lonely nightblood sitting on her bed by the tower window, looking out at the moon and wondering what she’d done wrong --

_ No _ \-- no more of that. No more heartache.

Both Clarke and Lexa had roles to play, and neither of them could afford to feel guilty for stepping up to their parts. They were still kids -- no matter how much their people wished them older -- and they had much to learn before they were ready to truly perform; neither guilt nor heartache had any place in their rehearsals. 

Clarke was done with this feeling. She wouldn’t let it hold her any longer. It was as simple as that, wasn’t it?

As she peeled her tunic up and over her shoulders, Clarke smiled to herself, momentarily victorious over the raucous in her chest that seemed more of a whisper now. The further she waded into the frigid waters, the more her body calmed. The easier it was to take a deep breath. 

By the time she was submerged up to her shoulders, Clarke felt more at peace than she had in years -- as though she’d flipped a switch with the stubbornness of her conviction. She repeated her newfound mantra until it became a hum at the back of her mind: _ no more guilt, for our people. _

Clarke plunged into the lake with a pounding heart and growing smile, feeling contentment for the first time since she’d first blinked away the intrusive light of morning. 

This was good. This was what she’d needed. Tomorrow would be all the better for it.

_ No more heartache. _

(Is it a lie if it is so truly believed?) 

  
  


\---

  
  


_ January 2145 _

  
  


Clarke couldn’t feel her fingertips.

Abbi had warned her against venturing out without gloves but it was such a short trip, and Clarke was determined to prove something.

She hurried along at a near-jog, weaving expertly around forest debris and foliage as the mid-afternoon sky grew dark with a coming storm. The supply pack situated across her torso thumped her hip with every movement, and she silently cursed the boy from Tondisi who’d assured her the burden would be light. 

He’d come to Chergeda’s outer trading post at the request of Clarke’s mother, bringing much-needed medical supplies from Nyko that their village wouldn’t last the remainder of winter without. The boy had shivered and grumbled throughout their encounter, claiming Nyko owed him twice his keep for making him an errand boy in such weather -- what had his name been? Something Murphy, perhaps --?

Horns. 

Distant, but distinct. Three, maybe four calls immediately overlapped by that of another set of horns, then another, and another -- until a chorus of repetitive calls filled the forest with sounds both near and far. 

It drew her up so short Clarke nearly dislocated something. She sucked in a breath, frozen in place as the hairs on her arm rose with the growing sounds. 

Those weren’t for the reapers.

Clarke broke into a dead sprint, making for the nearest tree and scrambling up its trunk so fast she ripped her clothes and skin in a few places. None of that mattered, though; not when she needed to get to the top. 

Blood roaring in her ears and trembling in her fingertips, Clarke broke through the canopy in record time. The horns blared all through the forest around her and over the waves of green to the mountains, but Clarke needed to _ see it. _

Sure enough, with her cheek pressed to the thinning trunk and bloody palms wrapped around its circumference, Clarke saw it -- the red smoke, rising from the ceremonial pyres of villages hidden by trees. One plume ascending from the nearest hillside to curl almost fuschia into the atmosphere as another rose from beside the river miles off, and so on. 

Clarke watched, almost unseeing, as the smoke became fewer and far between, the horns receding into the distance once more. She couldn’t tell how far off, could barely hear over the sound of her own pounding heartbeat. 

Her fingers were numb with everything but winter, her stomach sinking so far within her that it almost distracted from the shooting pain beside her sternum. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t _ breathe _. 

It couldn’t be. It was too soon, there was no way --

When the forest quieted and the smoke disappeared, Clarke was still above the canopy, feeling nothing and everything encompassed in a frigid bubble of denial. 

It was impossible. It simply couldn’t be true. 

As she made her way back to the forest floor -- her limbs scarcely cooperating -- Clarke decided it was impossible. When boots crunched into leaves that gave way beneath her, Clarke knew it had to be a trick of the mind. A cruel game from the winter’s bone. 

Her palms gave a mighty throb and she glanced down, unsurprised to find blood and --

No. _ No. _

Red dust, almost pink in the faint sunlight that had broken through the storm clouds overhead. The dust from a ceremonial pyre, blown over by winter’s chill.

_ It couldn’t be. _

Clarke collapsed into the leaves, darkness overtaking her like acid fog as it hit her -- 

The Conclave had been called; a new Commander had risen.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potential tw///discussions of abuse/relational violence --
> 
> a note on what's been going on (if you're not caught up, i suggest going over to twitter for context):  
first and foremost, i want to say that i stand with survivors, and i believe women. i believe arryn, and i stand with her. i have never considered myself a stan of anyone (i don't believe in stanning, but that's a post for another time), let alone bob and eliza, but i was fans of their work and supported them as actors/people. i will not support them any longer. in addition to the accusations that have come out, it has always bothered me how both bob and eliza (bob, more so) never seem to speak up in support of any cause outside of their own immediate interests or issues that affect them personally. this, in addition to the accusations and revelations of recent days, makes it impossible for me to continue supporting them in any capacity.
> 
> that being said, i believe it is our right as a fandom to claim the characters they play as our own and separate them completely from the actors who portray them on a single medium. since 2016, both clarke and lexa have become icons in their own right, and i believe it is entirely possible to continue preserving the spirit of their legacy in a manner that is separate from the people who have given their likenesses to the characters. this is OUR ship, these are OUR characters, and they've taken on a life of their own that far surpasses ANYTHING the show gave us. that being said, if you have to picture a more nebulous face with similar features to eliza when imagining clarke going forward, i won't blame you for that lolol. in fact, if you can't continue reading or supporting anything related to clexa after all of this, i understand that as well; everyone is entitled to processing and dealing with things in their own way, and i respect that! thank you for sticking with it this long <3
> 
> to those who are continuing on this journey with me (and this fandom), i love y'all. thank you for your support on my stories, and thank you for bearing with my ridiculous update schedule lmao. all the love and solidarity in the world to my fellow LGBTQ+ ppl, happy pride, Black Lives Matter, and ACAB for liiiiiife!!!!
> 
> (p.s. hope you liked the chapter lmaoooo. much love.)

**Author's Note:**

> this is slightly different than my usual writing style, as i tried to make it a bit more simplistic to reflect how (i think) children think. in simple terms, good and evil, happy and sad - and all of these feelings are much bigger and more easily felt. hopefully i captured that, as well as the essence of clarke and lexa that we all know and love.
> 
> (p.s. if you're familiar with my other stories, then, yes, this is me channeling my writer's block there into something fun lol. thank you for bearing with me, nonetheless.)


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